


Critical Mass

by dracoqueen22



Series: Event Horizon [4]
Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: Bonding, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Elements of Dubious Consent, Family Drama, Family Secrets, Gen, M/M, Season Two AU, Spark Sex, Tactile Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-16
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2017-12-26 19:17:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 71,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/969333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to Event Horizon. New allies have come to assist, but Optimus is still missing, and other matters have complicated the fight against the Decepticons. Time draws ever short as the war races toward an inevitable conclusion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Like Event Horizon, some might consider this mechpreg. It takes place during season two of Transformers Prime, runs along with canon and then diverges in several points.

 

There's something to be said about the prowess of a bona fide medic, one who actually cares about his victim’s – err, patient’s – health. It's been almost a full orn yet Knock Out still feels sluggish from whatever sedative Ratchet had given him. Not even his personal overrides are effective in dispersing it.  
  
Knock Out has tried and failed not to be impressed. As much as he can, on occasion, despise his carrier, he cannot deny the mech's skill.  
  
Once upon a time, he'd longed only to grow up in his carrier's pedesteps. Such dreams are now the ashes of a youngling abandoned to war. Knock Out no longer has any patience for them.  
  
A warning pops up in his HUD. He's low on energon and also in desperate need of a wash and polish. He could also do with a defrag, but a mech's got to have his priorities.  
  
On a lonely, dusty road in the middle of nowhere, Knock Out finally pings the Nemesis. If he has any luck, Soundwave or a drone will be on duty. Soundwave, at least, doesn't bother with inane conversation. Or any conversation at all.  
  
“Knock Out to Nemesis. Track my position and send a Ground Bridge.”  
  
A dark chuckle slithers across the comm and Knock Out almost skids off the road. Fraggit all to the smelter!  
  
“Why Knock Out,” Airachnid purrs with all the mockery one can fit into a single phrase. “Wherever have you been?”  
  
Knock Out's engine rumbles before he can stop himself. So much for self-control. “Scouting,” he bites out. “Not that it makes any difference to you.”  
  
“Now is that any way to speak to your superior officer?” Airachnid retorts, her vocals making him cringe. She's oily, through and through, and not the good kind.  
  
Officer, yes. Superior?  
  
Knock Out makes a noise of disdain. Never in a thousand vorn! He'd sooner defect to the Autobots than believe such a thing. And Airachnid is a fool if she honestly thinks she's gotten away with her little stunt during Lord Megatron's brief absence.  
  
Soundwave knows and sees all. Which means Knock Out has all his digits crossed, hoping the spy hasn't stumbled upon Knock Out's week spent in Autobot custody.  
  
It's a futile hope.  
  
“I request a ground bridge, sir,” Knock Out bites out, expending effort to keep his tone the thin edge of civil.  
  
Airachnid laughs. “And here we thought you'd gone to find our dear, missing Starscream. Alas, alas.”  
  
Ahead of him, the roadway lights up with the familiar green swirl of a ground bridge. Knock Out puts metal to the pedal and speeds for home, eager to be back aboard the familiarity of the Nemesis.  
  
“Welcome home, medic,” Airachnid adds as she cuts off the comm and Knock Out roars into the ground bridge.  
  
His plating crawls and he wants nothing more than to scrub himself clean, and then scrub out his processor of Airachnid's presence. He can't wait until Lord Megatron shows her the error of her ways.  
  
Airachnid's ground bridge dumps him in the lowest level of the Nemesis, used for storage of broken machinery and other useless parts. Which means he's a long walk away from either his quarters or the medbay. How petty of her.  
  
Knock Out shifts to root mode, lips curling with disdain. He brushes a servo down his chestplate, streaked with road dust. Disgusting.  
  
He works his way through the crowded storage room, lit by a few emergency lights and nothing else. It smells strongly of disuse, spilled fluids, and rust down here. His plating crawls again.  
  
Knock Out activates his comm. “Breakdown.”  
  
“Where the frag you been?” His assistant's surly voice crackles across the connection, no doubt there's something down here spewing interference. Who knows what discards Lord Megatron's shoved down here to rot?  
  
“Where do you think?” Knock Out snarls, his sour mood plummeting even further. “With the Autobots, you useless piece of back up!”  
  
Breakdown huffs into the comm. “They're Autobots. Biggest thing you had to worry about was whether or not they were gonna leave the cuffs on. Meanwhile I got Soundwave breathin' up my tailpipe!”  
  
Knock Out's spark skips a few pulses. That slagged spy! The last thing he wants is Soundwave getting too curious. Letting the Decepticons know that he's a merger is one thing. Telling them his genitors are Autobots is a whole nother city-state. It'd be like signing his death warrant.  
  
“What've you been telling him?”  
  
“Nothing. What was I supposed to say?”  
  
“You could've lied!”  
  
“I didn't know the truth! How the frag was I supposed to lie?”  
  
Knock Out's engine gives an ominous rumble of aggravation as he punches the button for the lift and waits, anger broiling inside of him. “I was gone for a week, you slagger.”  
  
“Don't seem like you had a rough time of it to me,” Breakdown retorts, sounding more than a little annoyed. “How the frag you escape anyway?”  
  
How indeed.  
  
The lift beeps and Knock Out steps into it, snapping the button to head up. “They let me go.”  
  
Silence.  
  
“Knock Out, you got something to tell me?”  
  
They've been partners-in-arms for vorns. Breakdown's been his assistant since Knock Out's been a medic. But he still hasn't told the other mech about his past. Just like Breakdown doesn't talk about his brothers, Knock Out doesn't talk about his genitors.  
  
“I'm not an Autobot!”  
  
“I didn't say you were. I'm just sayin' what everyone else is gonna be thinkinh.”  
  
Breakdown isn't nearly as dumb as everyone thinks he is, fraggit. Sometimes, if he were, things would go a lot better for Knock Out. Easier, too.  
  
The lift stops at the requested floor and the door slides open. Knock Out looks up, his insides feeling as if they've been doused in icy water.  
  
Soundwave is standing there, staring at him with that inscrutable face mask.  
  
Scrap.  
  
\--I'll have to comm you later,-- Knock Out tells his assistant. He puts just enough urgency in his tone that Breakdown knows better than to respond.  
  
Knock Out plants a smile on his face. “Soundwave,” he greets. “Going up?” One hand makes a broad gesture, moving aside for the third in command to enter if he pleases.  
  
Soundwave tilts his helm upward, saying nothing, but his actions speaking libraries of datapads.  
  
Knock Out's shoulders slump. “A debriefing then?”  
  
Soundwave gestures Knock Out to leave the lift and follow him. How in the frag had he found out about Knock Out's return so quickly? Airachnid hates the spy. Surely she wouldn't have commed him just to report Knock Out's return?  
  
Apprehension churning in his spark, Knock Out steps out of the lift and into line behind Soundwave. He has no illusions as to where they are going.  
  
Straight to Lord Megatron himself.  
  


o0o0o

  
  
“Ratchet?”  
  
Sunstreaker pokes his helm into the medbay, optics seeking the small space for his mate. Their bond is noticeably silent. Ratchet picked up on dampening the transmission pretty quickly for someone who had never been bonded to another. It had only been a couple of Earth days after all.  
  
He doesn't see Ratchet at first. Maybe he's back in one of the smaller store rooms? It's not like there are many places to hide in here.  
  
Though surely he would have responded when he heard Sunstreaker call for him. Unless he's sulking again. For a mech thousands of vorns old, Ratchet can pout like a sparkling when he feels like it.  
  
“Ratchet?”  
  
A servo appears out of nowhere, grasping at Sunstreaker's arm and yanking him back. He flails with a yelp, free arm knocking over a tray of carefully arranged tools and sending them clattering to the floor. His dorsal plating hits the wall with a jarring thud.  
  
His spark flares with recognition seconds before a white-red blur presses up against him, optics blazing blue with need.  
  
“Ratchet, what--”  
  
Sunstreaker's vocalizer cuts off on a burr of static as Ratchet's free hand attacks his midsection, clever fingers going right for a sensitive bundle of cables and peppering them with sharp, heavy bursts of charge.  
  
Sunstreaker arches, free hand clamping down on his mate's shoulder, mouth opening in a loud cry of pleasure. His helm knocks back against the wall and he gropes at his bonded with his free hand, dragging Ratchet closer.  
  
Okay. This is different. But not bad.  
  
If this is the way Ratchet wants to play, then fine with Sunstreaker. He'll ponder the whys and the what the frags about it later.  
  
Sunstreaker's cooling fans kick on with a loud whirr as their frames collide, static leaping from Ratchet's frame and onto Sunstreaker's own, burrowing beneath his plating and dancing over his sensory net. Pleasure floods Sunstreaker's circuits, making him moan.  
  
Ratchet slams their chestplates together, spark energies pulsing out from the barrier of metal between them and spilling against Sunstreaker teasingly.  
  
“Sunstreaker,” Ratchet moans, voice a pleading tremor that sends heat flashing through Sunstreaker's systems. “I need you.”  
  
“You have me,” Sunstreaker replies, bewildered in part, but mostly aroused. All he can sense from his mate is the desire to interface, here and now. Fast and hard, overload after overload...  
  
It makes his engine rev.  
  
Ratchet hooks a hand in Sunstreaker's armor, keeping them pinned together, lips parted in a hungry snarl. “No,” he insists, optics so dark with arousal they are barely blue. “Give me your spark.”  
  
Ratchet's chestplates start to part, green and silver seeping through, illuminating the bare space between them. Sunstreaker's own spark whirls in eager anticipation.  
  
The medic reaches up, fumbling at Sunstreaker's own chestplate. “Please,” he begs.  
  
Sunstreaker parts his armor panels before he can convince himself to do otherwise, his systems surging with desire, Ratchet's own arousal like a siren's call. His systems surge into overdrive, electricity dancing over his plating, darting back and forth between himself and Ratchet.  
  
Spark energy leaps through the small gap, eager to join with Ratchet's, taste that sweet ecstasy once more.  
  
Sunstreaker's lips part, a gasp escaping him as he presses his forehelm against Ratchet's, arms encircling the medic and holding Ratchet close. Metal screeches against metal, their chassis pressed so close together it's as if they seek to crawl inside each other's plating. Ratchet's fingers are tangled under Sunstreaker's plating, sending surges of charge through his circuits.  
  
Not that it matters. Nothing compares to the bliss of their bare sparks knitting together, whirling tendrils reaching out and latching on. Twisting together in such a way that they'll never be torn apart. Not even in death.  
  
Sunstreaker groans, pleasure slamming into him, heat washing over his frame from helm to pede. He can feel himself trembling, can feel Ratchet shaking, too. Energy pours out of him and into Ratchet, doubling back, peppering his frame with ecstasy.  
  
Ratchet's love is a fierce heat that strikes to Sunstreaker's core and he responds in kind, throwing back feelings of devotion, protectiveness, desire, and a love that compares to none other, save what he feels for his twin and his errant youngling.  
  
“Nngh.” Sunstreaker's optics offline, every sensor attuned to Ratchet and the bliss building between them.  
  
To the surges of pleasure and charge, the static crackling and licking across their plating. He tightens his grip, hears metal crumple under the force of his strength.  
  
Ratchet cries out, something garbled and wordless, lacking glyphs even, but underneath it. He arches, metal slamming against metal, and overload slams into them both so quickly Sunstreaker's not prepared for it.  
  
He roars, the scent of discharged energy filling the room, entire frame spasming from the overcharge. He hears Ratchet follow him over, feeling the demanding pull of Ratchet's spark, and clings to his mate as the aftermath leaves Sunstreaker feeling weak and helpless. Tired, in desperate need of recharge, and a cube or two.  
  
Sunstreaker sags, but Ratchet's limp in his arms.  
  
He cycles his vocalizer when it doesn't work on the first try. “Ratchet?”  
  
The medic doesn't respond.  
  
Sunstreaker looks at his mate. Ratchet's frantic grip has loosened; his optics dark. He appears to be, for all intents and purposes, offline.  
  
Sunstreaker's chestplates slide closed with a quick click, his spark reluctant to be sealed again in his own frame. Ratchet's own are also sliding shut, sealing on unconscious reaction to a state of vulnerability.  
  
He gives his mate a small shake. “Ratchet?”  
  
Sunstreaker doesn't want to be worried. It's not like this is the first time he's offlined his partner after an interface, but such an offlining usually isn't precluded by Ratchet acting noticeably out of character. Sunstreaker can count on one servo the number of times Ratchet has ever jumped him like a horny youngling just discovering his interface ports. And all of them were preempted by copious amounts of high grade.  
  
Which, by the way, Sunstreaker cannot detect anywhere on his mate's person. Not in his ex-vents, not in cubes around the medbay, and it certainly wasn't present through their bond.  
  
Sunstreaker's spark gives a flutter of anxiety. “Ratchet!”  
  
No response.  
  
“Frag,” he swears, and lifts Ratchet, carrying him to the nearest medberth.  
  
He unspools an interface cable, familiar fingers scrabbling at the port on Ratchet's side, just above his pelvic girdle.  
  
\--Perceptor?--  
  
It takes a klik before the scientist-cum-field medic responds to Sunstreaker's ping.  
  
\--What is it, Sunstreaker?-- Perceptor asks, sounding as though Sunstreaker has dragged him from a deep recharge.  
  
Oh, right. Perceptor had been on ground bridge duty up until about thirty minutes ago. Well, he'll get over it. There's an emergency here.  
  
\--It's Ratchet,-- Sunstreaker says, unable to hide the urgency in his tones, just as Sideswipe starts pinging in on another channel, no doubt sensing his growing panic. --Something's wrong with him.--  
  
\--You shall have to be more specific, Sunstreaker,-- Perceptor says, suddenly fully alert and his tone sharp. --What are his symptoms?--  
  
A groan echoes from the medberth. Sunstreaker yanks his attention away from the comm as Ratchet stirs, optics flashing online. One hand lifts to his helm, groping at his forecrest.  
  
“What the frag?” Ratchet mutters.  
  
\--Nevermind,-- Sunstreaker says, and cuts off the comm before Perceptor can ask any more questions or Sideswipe can start nagging him about what happened. Nosy little pest that his twin is and all.  
  
“You tell me,” Sunstreaker replies, laying a hand on his mate's chestplate, feeling the strong pulse of his spark beneath. “You jump me out of nowhere and then black out when you overload? What the frag, Ratchet?”  
  
Ratchet's optics shift to him, dimmer than usual, a clear sign of an underenergized mech. He doesn't seem to be focusing too well either.  
  
“When was the last time you energized?” Sunstreaker demands, already turning to hunt through the cabinets for a spare cube or two. Stupid medics and their selfish need to put their patients before themselves!  
  
“Had a cube before I came on shift,” Ratchet replies, sitting up on the berth with a creak of gears still in desperate need of a tune-up.  
  
Sunstreaker stills in his search. “A full cube?”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
Sunstreaker straightens, turning back toward his mate. Ratchet's shift had started less than three hours ago. Which is why Sunstreaker had come looking for Ratchet here in the first place.  
  
“Then why the frag are you underenergized?” Sunstreaker demands.  
  
Ratchet flinches, hand groping at his chestplate as he sits up fully, shoulders slumping. “I don't know.” He winces, tilting his head in such a way to indicate he's answering his comm before glaring at Sunstreaker. “You pinged Perceptor?”  
  
He crosses his arms over his chassis and glares at the wall. “You wouldn't power on.”  
  
Ratchet exvents loudly and starts rubbing his chestplate again, only to freeze mid-motion. “Scrap,” he says, in a defeated tone. “Fragging son of a pit-spawned smelter!” His energy field flares outward, displaying a mixture of excitement, dread, and despair.  
  
Sunstreaker shifts his gaze back toward his mate, feeling a trickle of Ratchet's conflicting emotions through their bond. “What is it?”  
  
Ratchet's not looking at him, though, but scanning the medbay. “I don't... do you see a scanner nearby?”  
  
“I see ten scanners.”  
  
“A specific one,” Ratchet retorts with a huff. “I need a spark scanner.”  
  
Sunstreaker lowers his arms, staring at his mate. Comprehension starts to dawn with a conflicting array of emotions that match what Ratchet is coursing through their bond.  
  
“Ratchet...?”  
  
“Let me find a scanner before we start jumping to conclusions.”  
  
Sunstreaker's spark starts to pulse within his chassis as he turns, beginning his search anew, procuring a cube for his mate and also finding the requested scanner. It looks like it's been made from scrap, pieced together from bits of discarded wreckage. It's embarrassing the way the humans have forced the Autobots to live. Embarrassing and shameful.  
  
He hands Ratchet the cube, who takes it gratefully.  
  
“I can't check myself,” Ratchet says, cupping the energon but not touching it just yet. “Can you...?”  
  
“Shouldn't be too hard.” Sunstreaker examines the device, which for the most part resembles a blaster that doesn't fire bullets. Aim and shoot. Simple enough.  
  
Aim and shoot. That's the sort of slag that Sunstreaker's good at.  
  
He plugs into the device, powering it from his own systems, and waits for it to finish booting. Ratchet quietly downs his cube and disperses the field with a flick of his digits.  
  
The scanner completes its boot sequence with a quiet bleep and Sunstreaker points it toward his mate, waiting to catch Ratchet's optics before he initiates the scan.  
  
Ratchet nods. “Go ahead.”  
  
It's a silent, tense minute as Sunstreaker waits for the scanner to complete the scan. The device hums, warming in his servos. It makes all sorts of noises that Sunstreaker can't interpret, but he does recognize the sound of a completed scan.  
  
He powers down the scanner, disconnects himself, and bundles up the file it sent to him. It's full of incomprehensible jargon so Sunstreaker databursts it to Ratchet and waits, on bolts and brackets, for his mate to analyze the data.  
  
He sets the scanner on the counter behind him and approaches the med berth, standing beside Ratchet as the medic's awareness turns inward. Sunstreaker examines his finish, idly noting the scrapes of red and white on his chassis, trying not to focus on the anxious twisting of his spark.  
  
“Frag,” Ratchet finally says, vocals barely above a whisper. “We sparked.”  
  


o0o0o

  
  
Lord Megatron is waiting on the bridge, as Knock Out suspects he will be, and he turns as Soundwave approaches with Knock Out in tow.  
  
He looks up at the leader of the Decepticons, who towers over him by several helms, and feels that familiar awe and fear wash over him. There's also a hefty dose of admiration mixed in there as well.  
  
“Knock Out,” Lord Megatron says, and there's a hint of condescension in his tone. “Soundwave informs me that you were taken by the Autobots. And yet, here you are, without a dent or scratch.”  
  
Knock Out hastily bows, drawing forth his most obsequious manner, if only to endear himself to Lord Megatron who is by no means a fool or an idiot. If he thinks, for even one astrosecond, that Knock Out has betrayed the Decepticons, Lord Megatron will not hesitate to offline Knock Out here and now.  
  
“Soundwave was correct, my lord, but I managed to escape. The Autobots, after all, suffer from a lack of decent leadership.”  
  
Lies. He buries the truth deep, as far in his processor as he can manage, with all the memories he hopes Soundwave will never extract from him. Truth is Knock Out's death warrant.  
  
Lord Megatron clasps his servos behind him, staring down at Knock Out with no shortage of scrutiny. “I can only surmise that they hoped to gain some intelligence from you. I assume they failed?”  
  
“Of course.” Knock Out manages a lop-sided grin that weakly reassures. “They asked many questions, though their primary concern was the location of our... guest.” He doesn't dare say Orion Pax or Optimus Prime, on the off chance that the Autobot-turned-Decepticon should overhear.  
  
A laugh of derision crawls out of Megatron's vocalizer. “Pathetic,” he says, and half-turns, optics seeking something beyond Knock Out's immediate sight. “I trust your time in captivity wasn't a complete waste?”  
  
“I wasn't able to determine their location,” Knock Out replies, and when Lord Megatron's optics flash, he hurriedly continues, “but I did learn that they have acquired a few new allies and that they have a plan regarding our guest.”  
  
“Who?”  
  
Knock Out hesitates, and then hates himself for that weakness. He should not be trying to protect his genitors. He should not care what happens to them. He should not have any sympathy, fraggit!  
  
“Their new commander is a mech designated Jazz,” Knock Out says, servos forming into loose fists at his sides. “They also have a gunner, Bluestreak. And a warrior, Sideswipe.”  
  
Lord Megatron tilts his helm. “Jazz...” he repeats, tone taking on a contemplative note. “That mech has been rust in my gears from the very beginning.”  
  
The Decepticon leader turns, massive shoulders an imposing profile, as he walks toward the bridge control panel. Soundwave doesn't move, faceplate blank of images or data, standing on the platform between Lord Megatron and Knock Out.  
  
Knock Out doesn't dare move. Should he consider himself dismissed? Does Lord Megatron wish to question him further? Have they believed his story, only part of which is false? Will he ever be allowed to visit the washracks?  
  
“You have done well, Knock Out,” Lord Megatron finally says. “Though I advise you to take care to ensure that you are not so weak as to be taken by the Autobots in the future.”  
  
Knock Out's engine stutters. “Yes, of course, Lord Megatron.” He bows again, because it never hurts to play the subservient card when it comes to pleasing the vitriolic leader.  
  
“And Soundwave?”  
  
The spy tilts his helm toward his leader, who has paused to glance over his shoulder with a single red optic.  
  
“See to our medic.” The edge of a sharpened denta smirk comes into view as Lord Megatron unfolds one arm to make a vague gesture. “Make sure that the Autobots haven't left him with any uninvited guests.”  
  
Knock Out's optics widen as Soundwave merely inclines his helm and shifts toward Knock Out, his sensory cables whipping out of his frame with no warning. Knock Out doesn't dare protest, not even when the cables latch onto him, seeking out interface panels and connecting to his systems in a matter of seconds.  
  
He thanks Primus or whatever else might be listening that he'd been smart enough to lock away all incriminating memories and truths long before stepping foot on the berth. No matter how unpleasant Soundwave's uninvited search becomes, he won't find anything.  
  
Not a fragged thing.  
  


o0o0o

  
  
“How the scrap did this happen?”  
  
Ratchet glares at his bondmate. “I don't think I need to give you the lecture on how this works again. I'm sure you remember well enough from the last time.”  
  
Sunstreaker huffs, planting his hands to either side of Ratchet on the berth and leaning in close. “Don't treat me like an idiot. There are supposed to be protocols.”  
  
“Which I turned off. Or did you forget about Knock Out?” Ratchet hisses.  
  
Sunstreaker's optics spiral outward. “You never turned them back on,” he says, his tone as flat and dry as a datapad.  
  
Ratchet's spark twists and surges within his chassis, a drain of energy that makes him feel weak from helm to pede. “We never merged again either.”  
  
Why didn't he turn those protocols back on? Long, long ago they'd discussed the possibility of fostering another sparkling, but they were still raising Knock Out. And then the war had come, Knock Out vanished, they were separated and...  
  
He doesn't know. Maybe he was trying to cling to a past that could never exist again. Maybe the thought never crossed his processor.  
  
Sunstreaker shutters his optics. “Frag it all to the Pit.”  
  
Ratchet puts his hands on his mate's pelvic assembly, thumbs rubbing a soothing line over silver plating. “... we have options,” he says quietly.  
  
“What do you mean?” Sunstreaker's tone is flat.  
  
He cycles a slow, careful ventilation, the words as difficult for him say as they are for him to consider. “I could terminate.”  
  
Sunstreaker's optics snap online. “What?”  
  
“Did you forget everything I taught you?” Ratchet demands, energy-heavy spark stuttering within his chassis, as though the unformed potential spark recognizes the end awaiting it.  
  
Sunstreaker's vocals dip into a lower register, tone filled with warning, anger bubbling up behind it all. “Ratchet...”  
  
“It takes more than one merge,” he snaps, emotions so mixed that they all crowd at the forefront of his processor, anger vying for center stage. “We stop now and I can reabsorb the extra energy. It's that simple.”  
  
“Painless?”  
  
It hurts like the Pit. But it ought to, in Ratchet's opinion. It's his fault for not turning those protocols back off. Reabsorbing the extra energy before it can split into a juvenile spark is a painful process and every klik of it will leave him gritting his denta.  
  
Good.  
  
“Is that what you want?”  
  
Sunstreaker looks at him, his expression unreadable, but feeling as chaotic as Ratchet's own. “We're in a war, Ratchet. And we've already failed Knock Out.”  
  
Ratchet winces at the reminder, fingers clenching on Sunstreaker's hip. “We don't have the supplies or the personnel,” he agrees in quiet tones, feeling that he's betraying himself all over again. “The Decepticons are a constant threat. Energon is low. It would be stupid.”  
  
“We can't. We shouldn't.”  
  
Ratchet's fingers flex and he leans forward, helm knocking against Sunstreaker's chestplate, feeling the thrum of the strong spark beneath. “Then we agree?”  
  
He can feel Sunstreaker shaking, the minute rattling of his plating easily transferring to Ratchet's armor.  
  
“No.” Sunstreaker jerks back, hands releasing the table only to grab Ratchet's helm, forcing their optics to meet. “Slaggit, Ratchet, no. I don't agree!”  
  
“Sunstr--”  
  
“And you don't either!” his mate snarls before Ratchet can get so much as a word or a glyph in. “You think I can't tell? I can't feel it?”  
  
Ratchet stutters. “Realistically...”  
  
“You aren't Prowl! Logic has slag all to do with it!”  
  
He ventilates roughly, emotions rattling around inside of him, clashing with what he knows is the more rational decision and what his spark wants.  
  
“Tell me the truth,” Sunstreaker demands, pressing their forehelms together, voice dropping until it is barely above a whisper. “Do you want another sparkling? With me?”  
  
Optimus is missing, taken by the Decepticons.  
  
They've only recently bonded, still struggling to cope and deal with that, along with the revelation that their youngling is on the side of the Decepticons.  
  
Life is hardly high grade and crystal gardens. There's still a lot of darkness.  
  
The humans would protest. It's not logical. They'd be putting a newspark in danger, putting themselves in danger.  
  
Their fellow Autobots wouldn't understand.  
  
Cybertron is dead, abandoned. They're trapped on this planet with no future.  
  
It's selfish to want this. To even consider it.  
  
“Yes,” Ratchet replies, because he can't lie. He just can't. “Yes, frag you, I want to do this again. But we can't.”  
  
“There's no one alive to stop us anymore,” Sunstreaker retorts. “And I'm tired, Ratchet. Tired of fighting to survive. We're not living, not anymore. I just want to live again.”  
  
Ratchet shutters his optics. The temptation is stronger than he can resist.  
  
He wants to try again. He doesn't want to terminate. With the Allspark missing, there's so little hope left.  
  
They all need something to fight for.  
  


***


	2. Chapter 2

Bluestreak fights to keep from nodding off. There's nothing more monotonous than standing in front of the console, watching the screens for signs of the Decepticons.   
  
Monitor duty. No matter where they are, what planet, what solar system, or if they're on a spacecraft or tucked up in a base back on Cybertron, monitor duty will forever be the most tedious and processor-numbing task.   
  
They all have to take a turn at it.   
  
Doorwings slumping, Bluestreak idly taps the control to cycle through to the next sector scan. No signs of Decepticons. No signs of dark energon. Not a blip of communications.   
  
Nothing.   
  
No one here to break up the monotony either. The humans are off at school. And Bluestreak actually likes the humans. They're funny.   
  
He doesn't even have Jazz here to entertain him. Nope. Because Jazz is off patrolling with Sideswipe, which sounds like a heap of fun to Bluestreak.   
  
He doesn't know where Sunstreaker is but he can hazard a guess because Ratchet's missing, too. Perceptor's appropriated one of the smaller empty rooms bit by bit, and has been turning it into a laboratory. He's tackling the mystery of dark energon and trying to figure out how they're going to both find and fix Prime.   
  
He guesses that Bulkhead, Arcee, and Bumblebee are running patrol routes, too. Oh, wait. No. Bumblebee's in recharge.   
  
Scrap.  
  
Bluestreak is bored.   
  
Bored, bored, bored--  
  
The system beeps an obnoxious trio of notes at him. Bluestreak's gaze whips toward the screen, fingers flying over the keys as he latches onto the alert and drags it over to the main monitor.   
  
It's a message, a transmission from beyond the planet but still within the solar system. There's an Autobot ID tag attached to it, too.   
  
Bluestreak recognizes it, doorwings giving a happy jiggle. He knows that ID ping. It's Prowl! He hits the button to accept the transmission. He also knows to play it safe. Just in case.  
  
“Unknown vessel, this is Autobot Outpost Omega One. Identify yourself.”   
  
Static crackles from the speakers before he receives a response. “Is this line secure?”   
  
Bluestreak's grin widens. “The Cons haven't found us yet.”   
  
“Bluestreak?”  
  
“Got it in one, sir.” His fingers fly across the keyboard, setting up a relay so that he can send this conversation on to Jazz as well. “It's good to hear your voice.”   
  
He hasn't seen or heard from his mentor in vorns. He can't stop the happy skipping in his spark, even if Jazz is sending him questioning pings through their bond.   
  
\--Should I be jealous?-- Jazz teases across a private comm.   
  
Bluestreak rolls his optics. --You knew him first, sweetspark.--  
  
“Likewise,” Prowl responds, warmth seeping through his official tones. “Is Jazz with you?”  
  
“Yes, sir,” Bluestreak replies, and shifts his tone into something more sly. “And is Mirage with you?”   
  
He can't see his mentor's expression, but he can imagine it. A mixture of reproach, amusement, and fondness. “Yes. Along with First Aid.”   
  
“Sideswipe will be happy to know that.”   
  
“What's the situation?”   
  
Bluestreak turns at the sound of pedesteps, seeing Perceptor stepping into the main room, looking as though he's just stirred from recharge.   
  
“Complicated,” Bluestreak responds, unable to hide his wince. “The Cons are here. Optimus was, too. It's... complicated. We could really use you. Jazz is more than willing to hand over command.”   
  
\--Tell him to get his aft down here ASAP,-- Jazz says into the comm, with no shortage of amusement, but also a hefty dose of sincerity. He's third in command, but he's never been too fond of the position, treating it as a matter of necessity.   
  
\--Gotcha.--   
  
“Landing coordinates?”   
  
Bluestreak sets the computer to calculating trajectories and arrival times, contemplating where best to meet Prowl and his team. Obviously, landing directly on base is not an option. Soundwave will track them the moment they break atmosphere.   
  
There is also the matter of concealing their entry from the humans. Bluestreak really doesn't want to hear Agent Fowler gripe and moan about unannounced bots again.   
  
“I suggest here,” Perceptor says, standing at Bluestreak's right shoulder and gesturing at the screen. “It's isolated and a fair distance from the last known location of the Nemesis.”   
  
Bluestreak nods. “Did you get that, sir?”   
  
“Affirmative.” Somewhere in the background, Bluestreak can hear quiet conversation, probably between First Aid and Mirage. “Projected arrival time is three orns.”   
  
Bluestreak does some quick calculations in his helm. Six days as the Earth rotates. That's doable.   
  
“Yes sir. We'll see you then. Bluestreak out.”   
  
The transmission ends and Bluestreak can't resist a cheer. The war's been crazy, mech after mech getting lost to the stars, offlining left right and center. But some have survived and being able to see them again is the only reason they have to celebrate of late.   
  
Perceptor smiles and pats him on the shoulder. “It will be nice to see familiar faces.”   
  
The sound of a high-performance engine makes both Perceptor and Bluestreak turn toward the main entrance as Jazz and Sideswipe come roaring inside, followed closely by Arcee and Bulkhead.   
  
“What's the deal, Jazz?” Arcee asks with an acrobatic flip from alt-mode to root-mode. Sometimes, Bluestreak envies her agility.   
  
Jazz takes a slower approach to transforming this time. Stretching, as Miko would call it. “Good news. Thought I'd share it with everyone.”   
  
Bulkhead slams one fist into his palm with anticipation. “Uhh. 'Cept not everyone's here.”   
  
Sideswipe winces, tapping his chestplate. “Right now, I think we'd best leave the lovebots alone. I don't know that there's anybot brave enough to get between those two right now.”   
  
“I'll go get Bumblebee,” Arcee says, and zips from the room.   
  
Knowing she'll be back soon enough, Bluestreak concentrates on bundling up all the data Prowl sent along the comm so that Jazz can have a copy of it. Oh, and Ratchet, too. He's the one who knows the most about Earth and all that.   
  
“What's up with the doc?” Jazz asks, hopping up onto one of the platforms the humans usually use and dangling his pedes over the edge.   
  
Sideswipe leans against the wall, waving a dismissive hand. “I don't know and with the flurry of mismatched sensations I'm getting, I'm not sure I want to know.”   
  
“Are they fightin' again?” Bulkhead asks, shaking his helm. “This place ain't big enough for all of that.”   
  
“It isn't big enough for a lot of things,” Jazz replies, propping his chin on the knuckles of one hand. “I really gotta talk to Fowler about gettin' us a bigger place.”   
  
“Good luck with that,” Sideswipe makes a derisive noise. “Don't you remember the fit he threw last time?”   
  
“Fowler may seem a bit high strung,” Arcee says as she comes back into the room, Bumblebee on her heels, “but he's stuck with us so far.”   
  
“Right.” Jazz nods firmly. “Enough chatting about the locals. I've got some good news. Or should I say my mate does. Wanna share, sweetspark?”   
  
Bluestreak grins, doorwings fluttering with excitement. “We've got some new arrivals,” he says, and jerks a thumb over his shoulder at the screen. “Prowl's coming with a couple of other mechs. One's Mirage.” He glances at Sideswipe, shuttering an optic in semblance of a wink. “The other's First Aid.”   
  
Sideswipe's jaw literally drops. “Serious?”   
  
Jazz pats him on the back. “Yep. Your love muffin's on his way here.”   
  
“Love muffin?” Sideswipe gives their current commanding officer a pained look.   
  
Arcee sighs, crossing her arms. “I should've guessed you'd pick up human culture first.”   
  
Bumblebee's proto-dialect cuts into the conversation, hands waving in a vague gesture as he broadcasts to them all at once. “Won't the Decepticons notice another ship landing?”   
  
Jazz inclines his helm. “Yeah. Prowl's gonna land elsewhere and we're gonna bridge them in. But ya can bet Buckethead's gonna investigate.”   
  
Perceptor makes a noise of contemplation. “We could use this to our advantage, Jazz.”   
  
“How so?” Arcee asks.   
  
“We still do not have the current location of the Nemesis or Optimus, though we all assume that one is with the other,” Perceptor answers and starts to pace across the floor, fingers rubbing his chin in thought. “A skilled infiltrator could take this opportunity to invite his or herself onto the Nemesis.”   
  
Jazz inclines his helm. “He might not bring the Nemesis to investigate. He'll probably send some lackeys and groundbridge 'em.”  
  
“Unless he takes the shuttle,” Sideswipe says, rolling his shoulders in a shrug. “I mean, waste not, want not. Right?”   
  
“That is assuming Megatron behaves in a logical manner. He could choose instead to destroy it,” Perceptor points out.   
  
The thought of such makes Bluestreak shudder. He knows who will volunteer for this mission and the last thing he wants is to watch his mate get blown to bits.   
  
“Then we just have to make sure that it's more valuable in one piece,” Jazz says with a grin that spells trouble.   
  
Bluestreak knows that look. He's seen it on Jazz's faceplate too many times over the past few eons. It means Jazz is going to attempt something foolish or dangerous. Possibly both.   
  
“Or,” Arcee interrupts, raising an orbital ridge. “We could not go the dangerous route and just find some way to affix a tracker to one of the Decepticons.”   
  
Bulkhead gives his companion a disbelieving look. “Like that's gonna help. The whole ship's cloaked!”   
  
“Ah.” Perceptor stops in the middle of pacing, spinning to face them all. “But the tracker will at least give us an approximate location. We can extrapolate from there.”  
  
“It's a ship,” Bulkhead insists, hands splayed out in front of him, moving from side to side. “It moves.”   
  
Bumblebee's hands wiggle through the air. “And none of us can fly.”   
  
“Well who's to say Percy can't whip us up a different kind of tracker?” Jazz suggests, visor shifting toward their resident scientist. “Think you and Ratch can work together and get us somethin' special?”  
  
“If you can manage to detach him from Sunstreaker,” Arcee mutters, but not quiet enough to not be heard. Bluestreak catches it just fine and he knows Jazz heard her, too.   
  
And, apparently, they're not the only ones to hear her either.   
  
“I think I detached myself just fine.”   
  
Ratchet's voice cuts through the conversation and he steps into the main room with a pointed gaze Arcee's direction. Sunstreaker is just behind him, looming like a golden cloud of discontent, a frown on his lipplates. Then again, Bluestreak can probably count on one hand the number of times he's ever seen Sunstreaker smile.   
  
Ratchet, though, he looks tired. Optics a little dimmer than usual, movements slower.   
  
Bluestreak frowns. Maybe he and Sunstreaker have been arguing again.   
  
Bluestreak looks at his mate but Jazz isn't paying him attention. His visor is locked on Ratchet and Sunstreaker, a contemplative frown pulling at his lipplates.   
  
“You called a meeting and didn't invite us?” Sunstreaker asks, shooting an accusing look at his brother.   
  
Sideswipe grins. “You were busy.”   
  
Bluestreak expects some teasing laughter, maybe some good-natured ribbing. Instead, he watches as Sunstreaker and Ratchet exchange dark glances, their energy fields buzzing with anxiety and disquiet.   
  
“We've got some news,” Jazz says, his vocals lacking the cheerful edge they had earlier. “A little bit of bad, mostly good. And maybe a plan.”   
  
Ratchet draws himself up straight, Sunstreaker still looming behind him like some kind of guard, as though they both suddenly fear attack. “You share your news then we'll share ours.”   
  
Bulkhead laughs, but it sounds force. “Seriously, Ratch. We already know you bonded. No need to keep pretending we don't.”   
  
“Bulkhead,” Jazz says quietly. “I don't think that's it.”   
  
No, Bluestreak doesn't either.   
  
What the frag has happened?  
  


o0o0o

  
  
“Dinner is served,” Knock Out announces as he steps into the tiny room where Lord Megatron has been keeping Orion Pax.   
  
The Nemesis console takes up almost all of the space, and Orion Pax is not a small mech. He looks as out of place in this room as he does walking the halls of the Nemesis itself. Though there's a certain aesthetic improvement when he's standing side by side with Lord Megatron.   
  
Orion turns away from the console, confusion writ into his faceplates. “...dinner?” He's so much more expressive without that battlemask.   
  
Knock Out hands over the energon cube. “Human expression,” he says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “They have a strange manner of speaking.”   
  
“I see.” Orion peers into the cube as though contemplating the exact shade of the newly processed energon. “Why would an alien planet have such an abundance of energon?”  
  
Knock Out shrugs. “It is a mystery.”   
  
Orion takes a long sip of the energon, giving Knock Out a long, measuring look. “Were you on a mission for Lord Megatron?”   
  
“...what?”   
  
“You were gone for a week.”   
  
Knock Out cycles his optics. “You noticed?”   
  
Orion finishes off his energon, dispersing the field of the cube with a practiced flick of his fingers. “A different mech brought my energon. They weren't as interested in conversation.”   
  
He honestly hadn't thought Orion would pay attention. Or notice. It's not as if Knock Out spends a lot of his time engaging in conversation with Megatron's pet Autobot. It's exhausting to watch his words, make sure he doesn't reveal anything untoward.   
  
Like the Pit he's going to tell the truth though.   
  
“Yeah. I had a mission. A failed one.” Knock Out scowls at the memory. Time spent in his genitors' tender care. Ugh.   
  
“Lord Megatron must have been disappointed.”   
  
Knock Out snorts, approaching Orion's console and glancing over the Autobot's work. Not that he can make helms or afts of it. “He can blame the Autobots for that one. Had any luck with the Iacon database?”   
  
“Some.” Orion steps up beside him, blunt fingers tapping a quick pattern over the keyboard. “I'm having difficulty accessing some items. Why is the Nemesis mainframe so heavily encrypted?”   
  
Someone's been doing some off-topic research. Lord Megatron won't be happy to hear about this. Still, what does he expect? Orion Pax is not Optimus Prime, but he's not stupid. Sooner or later, he's going to realize that all the little lies don't add up, and Lord Megatron is not the same as Megatronus.   
  
Also, this is Knock Out's cue to make himself scarce.   
  
“Standard procedure,” he says and backs toward the door. “The Autobots are sneaky fraggers that sometimes try to hack the mainframe.”   
  
“I see.” Orion doesn't sound convinced.   
  
“I'll let you get back to work,” Knock Out adds and hits the door panel, causing it to slide open. “After all, Lord Megatron's anxiously waiting for some results.”   
  
He doesn't wait for Orion's response, ducking back into the main hallway. Orion seems focused on his work again anyway.   
  
Crisis averted.   
  
Knock Out brushes imaginary grime off his chestplate and turns, only to nearly collide with his partner.   
  
“So you gonna tell me what happened?” Breakdown demands, looming over Knock Out like that's going to intimidate him into talking.   
  
The back of Knock Out's hand smacks against Breakdown's massive chestplate as he pushes past his assistant. “I'm busy.”   
  
His finish, after all, is still atrocious. Ratchet had repaired him but hadn't bothered to so much as buff away a scratch or two.  
  
“Too busy to tell me why the Autobots let you go?”   
  
Knock Out's spark stutters but he restrains himself. “I escaped.”   
  
Breakdown makes a noise of derision. “Right. Tell me another one.” He puts on a burst of speed, cutting in front of Knock Out, making him stop in his tracks. “For someone who escaped from captivity, you don't look very banged up.”   
  
“Unlike a certain someone, I used my processor over my fists,” Knock Out replies, annoyed. He tilts his helm. “And you're one to talk. We both know you didn't free yourself from those humans.”   
  
Breakdown jerks back, optic spiraling down. “So that's how it's gonna be?”   
  
“You started this,” Knock Out retorts.   
  
Breakdown stares at him for a long moment, energy field wavering, before he stalks past Knock Out, leaving him alone in the hall.   
  
Maybe not the smartest thing to drive off his back up. But Breakdown's asking too many questions. And he's never been good at keeping his mouth shut. Knock Out doesn't owe him any answers either.   
  
Knock Out ex-vents slowly, easing the tenseness of his motion cables.   
  
Things are getting too complicated.   
  


o0o0o

  
  
Sunstreaker whips the mop across the floor, muttering a low curse when the dirty water flecks back onto his pede. He's glad he's shut off his olfactory sensors because the smell of the cleaner is not at all pleasant. Frag Jazz and his idea of punishment.   
  
Scrubbing at the stone floor is not Sunstreaker's idea of a good time. Earth is not Cybertron. This is never more apparent than in the layers of dust that coat everything. It gets on his armor, beneath his plating, on their equipment, over the floor. They track it in on their tires.   
  
Dirt. Sunstreaker despises dirt.   
  
And now Jazz is making him mop it up. With human-sized tools at that. This is taking fragging forever.   
  
Sunstreaker would bet twenty credits – if they even bothered with currency anymore – that Jazz is laughing his aft off somewhere.   
  
Why hasn't Ratchet gotten punished, too? He's not the only one who decided to bond out of nowhere without telling their CO.   
  
Sunstreaker exvents loudly. This just isn't fair.   
  
He can't believe he's starting to miss monitor duty.   
  
A shadow appears in the doorway. Sunstreaker doesn’t even have to look up to identify his visitor.   
  
“Track mud over this clean floor and you will find my pede stuffed somewhere unpleasant,” Sunstreaker warns.   
  
Sideswipe doesn't chuckle, though he usually would laugh such a threat off. In fact, their brother-bond is completely closed right now, without so much as a flicker of emotion gleaming through. And Sideswipe's reeled in his energy field, too.   
  
Primus. Sideswipe is in a serious mood.   
  
Sunstreaker plops the mop in the bucket, swirls it around and drags it back out again, dribbling brownish water over the floor.   
  
He waits.   
  
“So,” Sideswipe finally says, careful as though he's tasting the word. “You really think this is a good idea.”   
  
It isn't a question.   
  
Sunstreaker grits his denta. So this is how it's going to be. “Frag off, Sideswipe.”   
  
“Mmm. Nope.” Sideswipe crosses his arms, tilting his helm. “Don't think I will.”   
  
Sunstreaker says nothing. What he wants, right now, is for his twin to support him. He doesn't want to hear Sideswipe's know-it-all ranting. Mech thinks that cause he got a frame a whole breem sooner that he has to be the mature, responsible one.   
  
“You're impulsive enough to do this, I know,” Sideswipe continues, without so much as an invitation, shifting on the door frame. “But how on Earth did you convince Ratchet?”   
  
Sunstreaker slams the mop against the floor, sending frothy water splashing out. “Do you honestly think I bullied him into it?”  
  
Sideswipe scoffs. “Sunny, no one can make Ratchet do anything he doesn't want to.”   
  
“Then why don't you be a good brother and support us?” Sunstreaker demands, jerking up his helm and finally meeting his twin's gaze.   
  
“Because I think this is the dumbest idea you've had yet. And you've had some real award-winners.”   
  
Sunstreaker glares.   
  
If anyone's had a bundle of bad ideas, it's his annoying brother and Sideswipe's tendency to play pranks when he's bored. Or just because he thinks it's his duty to be some kind of morale officer.   
  
Perceptor still hasn't forgiven Sideswipe for that explosion in his lab.   
  
Sideswipe comes fully into the room, the door sliding shut behind him. “You can't replace Knock Out.”   
  
Sunstreaker feels a lot like he's been struck in the chestplate. “This isn't about that!”   
  
“Isn't it?” Sideswipe's optics spiral down, focusing. “Cause let me tell you, making a sparkling here and now is fragging stupid. Did you forget about the Decepticons? The war? The pile of junk that we call a living space?”   
  
The mop clatters from Sunstreaker's fingers, lying in a pool of dirty water. “Reminds you a bit of home, doesn't it?” he asks, slumping against the rock wall, as uncomfortable and full of protrusions it may be.   
  
Sideswipe jerks as if physically struck, and backpedals a pace. “Is that what this is about?” He exvents noisily. “Primus, Sunny. We can't go back. Uraya's gone. The Clinic's gone. Cybertron's dead.”   
  
“I know that!” Sunstreaker hisses, fingers curling into fists, spark an anxious whirl within his chassis. “I just...”   
  
He can't put it into words. So he sends a flurry of emotions at his twin through their bond, hammering at the blocks Sideswipe's put up until his brother lets him in.   
  
Words. Sunstreaker's never been good with them.   
  
He doesn't know how to say what this is to him.   
  
He wants a family again. His family. He's tired of war, fighting and killing. He's good at it, but that doesn't mean he wants to keep doing it. He's more comfortable wielding a blaster than a stylus these orns.   
  
His own bond feels like a stranger to him. His youngling became a Decepticon and there's no chance of getting Knock Out back.   
  
Sunstreaker still feels like he has nothing left to cling to. Earth isn't home. It's a poor substitute and he certainly can't relax or feel comfortable here.   
  
And he knows fostering another sparkling isn't going to make everything right. Or change the way he feels about Earth or fix his and Ratchet's relationship.   
  
But Sunstreaker wants to try again anyway. He can't explain why. He just does.   
  
Sideswipe winces when Sunstreaker's battering finally takes effect and he's assaulted with a deluge of emotions. His shoulders slump.   
  
“You know,” Sideswipe says, stepping fully into the room and around the puddle of brownish water. “I was going to support you anyway, right? I just wanted to know you were sure.” He lays a hand on Sunstreaker's shoulder, pulsing affection and fond exasperation across their bond.   
  
Relief ripples through Sunstreaker's energy field. No one else has seemed happy about this so he's glad to have Sideswipe's support.   
  
Perceptor's enthusiasm to witness a true fostering with his own optics notwithstanding.  
  
“I'm not, however, going to help you mop this floor,” Sideswipe says, gesturing with his other hand to the tiny mop and dirty water. “That's your punishment detail. Not mine.”   
  
Sunstreaker shakes his helm and bends down to pluck the mop off the stone. “You just wait until your first prank. Then you'll be right here with me.”   
  
Sideswipe laughs.   
  


***


	3. Chapter 3

“Ratchet!”  
  
Jazz nearly leaps three feet off the floor in his surprise. A human suddenly appearing on the view screen and hollering at him is not exactly something he's used to.  
  
He stares warily at the screen. “Doc's busy. What's up, Agent Fowler?” He tries a disarming, friendly grin.  
  
It is promptly ignored.  
  
“You know, he's been busy for the past three days,” Agent Fowler says, peering suspiciously at the screen. “Something you bots aren't telling me?”  
  
“If you recall, the chain of command has been rearranged,” Jazz retorts, still pleasantly, but with a bit of an edge now. “I'm in charge so you should be talkin' to me.” Though Primus knows he doesn't like being in command at all. “And I'm guessin' there's an emergency or somethin'.”  
  
Agent Fowler barely blinks at the minor chastisement, his lips thinning in a gesture of annoyance. “Cons are in New York. Smashing up the subways. I've got the whole system shut down due to a quote-unquote gas leak, but there are a lot of angry commuters out there and I've got _my_ boss breathing down my neck.”  
  
“Gotcha. We'll put a stop to it,” Jazz promises, already considering just who to send on this mission.  
  
It could be nothing more than the 'Cons wanting to draw them out. Or they could be after something in particular. He doubts they'll have a huge force waiting though. There's not a lot of space in the subway tunnels, according to Jazz's quick internet search.  
  
Thank Primus for Google.  
  
Agent Fowler stares into the screen. “Without collateral damage?”  
  
Jazz exvents and resists the urge to add sarcasm to his tone. Collateral damage when fighting Decepticons is kind of a given. Seriously.  
  
“We'll do the best we can,” Jazz says instead, perfectly polite, with another fake smile and a cheerful flash of his visor.  
  
All of a sudden, Agent Fowler's hard stare softens, as though he's been struck with a revelation. He shifts, uneasy, and scratches at his ear. “I know. You always do. Fowler, out.”  
  
The screen goes blank before Jazz can so much as process the man's sudden change of spark – err, heart.  
  
“You must be growing on him.”  
  
He doesn't so much as startle this time, having sensed Arcee's arrival about mid-way through the conversation.  
  
Jazz grins, fingers tapping over the control panel to display a schematic of New York's subway system, only awaiting Fowler to send over the exact coordinates of the Decepticon's location. “My charm is undefeatable.”  
  
“So you say.” Arcee arches an orbital ridge at him, unimpressed. “Where is Ratchet anyway?”  
  
“Resting.” The console beeps; information delivered. “He's still got a few weeks before his spark'll be overenergized enough to split.”  
  
Arcee shifts her weight with a hiss of hydraulics. “I still say this is a bad idea.”  
  
Yes, Jazz remembers. She had been particularly vocal about it a few solar cycles ago. Sunstreaker had looked positively homicidal.  
  
Jazz has made it a priority to keep those two separated and on opposite shifts whenever possible.  
  
He glances over his shoulder at the femme. “You wanna be the one to tell Sunstreaker or the Hatchet that they can't?”  
  
“Optimus could.”  
  
“Optimus isn't here right now,” Jazz retorts curtly, shifting back toward the console. “I'm all you got. And I can't bear ta tell them no.”  
  
He understands, probably more than anyone else who's not direct family, what this might mean to Ratchet and Sunstreaker. And yeah, now's not a good time. Frankly, their timing sucks. But he can't tell them no.  
  
He doesn't think it would do any good anyway.  
  
“Fine,” Arcee says. “But I'm not babysitting.”  
  
Jazz chuckles, bringing up the subway schematic on a smaller monitor to keep the main one free. “Naw. I've got other plans for you. Like this mission that just popped up.”  
  
“In the subway system?” Arcee shudders, plating giving an audible rattle. “Fine. But I'm taking Bumblebee.”  
  
“And Bluestreak, too. He's eager to see more of Earth.”  
  
“Playing favorites?”  
  
Jazz pauses in his typing. “Not really. He hates confined spaces.”  
  
“Mm. Any news on Prime?”  
  
Slightly more comfortable topic, but not by much. “Not so much as an echo.”  
  
He must have truly forgotten. Jazz knows Prime, knew Orion. The boss bot would have been smart enough to figure out how to send a signal by now, if he thought himself in trouble. But if he's truly reverted far enough in the past, back to when he and Megatronus had shared a vision, amongst other things, than it's a small wonder that there's been no sign of their missing leader.  
  
Arcee's faceplates twist with grief and anger and she turns sharply away from Jazz. He detects the transmission of a comm, assumes she's contacting Bumblebee, and sets the groundbridge to bring the scout back.  
  
\--Got a job for ya, sweetspark.--  
  
Bluestreak responds with an amused tone. --Will I enjoy it?--  
  
\--Maybe. Come to the command center and I'll tell ya all about it.--  
  
\--Yes sir.--  
  
Warmth floods their bond, the one stable thing in Jazz's life since Cybertron went to the Pit and his whole universe turned upside down.  
  
“Jazz.”  
  
He shifts his attention back to Arcee. “Yeah?”  
  
“Bee's got Jack and Raf. He says Jack wants to come. Miko, too.”  
  
Confusion filters through, though Jazz has heard numerous stories about the female human's tendency to leap head-first into trouble. “Why?”  
  
Arcee's shoulders lift in a shrug. “Something about a face. We might run into humans down there.”  
  
And Prime's standing order that they conceal themselves remains.  
  
Jazz exvents and returns his attention to the screen. “It's going to be dangerous,” he warns, but he suspects such a warning is superfluous.  
  
“That's never stopped Miko before,” Arcee retorts, her vocals carrying the tones of a femme irritated but resigned.  
  
Bringing the humans along might be a necessity. From the records, Jazz has seen that most encounters between the two factions have been in areas free of human populations. But the subway tunnels in New York? Even if Fowler claims to have cleared them out, there's a higher chance of being spotted.  
  
Still...  
  
“Fine,” Jazz grudgingly concedes. “Take them. But I'll be monitorin' you closely. At the first sign of trouble, I'm bridgin' them out.”  
  
Arcee throws out a sketchy salute. “Yes, sir.”  
  
Pedesteps across the floor announce Bluestreak's arrival as Jazz fires up the groundbridge, bringing Bumblebee back to base as well. Jazz leaves Arcee to explain the mission while he resets the coordinates for somewhere in New York that hopefully is near the Decepticon incursion but out of human sight.  
  
Things just keep getting interesting.  
  
Primus but Prowl can't get here soon enough. Jazz is ready to be done with command.  
  


0o0o0

  
The console beeps a cheerful tone of success at him.  
  
Orion cycles his optics, slipping out of a state of concentration to focus on the decoded data. Another set of coordinates? How strange that the Iacon database should contain information on Cybertronian artifacts on this planet. Why are they here? And why is there so much energon for that matter?  
  
It makes no logical sense.  
  
Orion frowns, but bundles up the newly decoded coordinates and bursts them to Soundwave, his main point of contact for such things. The communications specialist sends him a confirming chirp through the comms but nothing else. So strange what war can do a mech, Orion wonders.  
  
He remembers a Soundwave who, while not particularly garrulous, still spoke, though his tones were rigid and unyielding. Not much humor to be found in the bulky gladiator either. But this slim and silent mech is nothing like the Soundwave of Orion's memory. What had invoked the change? And where are the rest of his minicons? Orion has only seen Laserbeak for certain. What of Rumble and Frenzy and Ravage?  
  
So many questions.  
  
Orion has reasoned that the answers are likely in the Nemesis' database, but they have been encrypted. As a side project, while working on the Iacon database, Orion has been trying to break through those locks. But he cannot focus on them as much as he would like and he's more familiar with Iacon's encoding anyway.  
  
Part of him fears the answers he might find.  
  
The Lord Megatron he sees now is not the Megatronus that Orion remembers either. Megatron is even more ruthless, though his vocals are as charismatic as ever. And he still looks upon Orion with degrees of affection, but there is a darkness behind his optics, an occasional glimpse of fiery other that makes Orion uneasy.  
  
This war that Megatron speaks of, Orion supposes that can cause so many changes. And if he and Megatron have been at odds for as long as the Decepticon leader claims, that might explain some things.  
  
But there are yet more mysteries that hammer at Orion's logic processors. There also remains the matter of his spark, which yearns for mechs he doesn't remember. The terrible Autobots. What had they done to him?  
  
He doesn't know. And for a data mech such as himself, it is the not knowing which is the worse sensation of all.  
  
A tired exvent escapes Orion as he slumps, hydraulics hissing in this unfamiliar frame. There is nothing to do but return to work. At least the steady patter of decoding makes sense to him. It is all that is familiar.  
  
Behind him, the door slides open as someone enters. Orion can tell, by sound alone, that it is Megatron come to visit. As often as this has occurred, he's grown to recognize the Decepticon leader's tread.  
  
“Orion,” Megatron greets as Orion turns to face him, taking in the sight of the former gladiator, mouth stretched in a pleased grin. “Soundwave informs me that you've decoded a second piece of the Iacon database. Coordinates, I believe?”  
  
Orion inclines his helm. “Yes. Located on this planet.” He hesitates before deciding that to ask is better than to wonder. “I still don't understand why there is Cybertronian tech here in the first place.”  
  
“It is a mystery that we are working to solve, rest assured,” Megatron says and strides further into the room, reaching out and resting one clawed servo on Orion's shoulder. “And you are an important piece of solving that puzzle.”  
  
A swell of pride rises within Orion, battling against the unpleasant edges of uneasiness that being in Megatron's presence provokes in him though he doesn't know why. It's a spark deep disquiet, as though his spark knows something that his processor does not. The contrast between that and the yearning also present in his spark, often leaves Orion reeling. How can he both desire Megatron and yet, want to put distance between them?  
  
“There is still a lot of data left to decode,” Orion says, shifting with intent to turn back to the console. If this is something Megatron needs done, then Orion will do his best to ensure he does not disappoint. He is not a warrior, after all, and this is the only way he can contribute to the cause. He does not wish to be a drain on their strained resources.  
  
Megatron's grip on his shoulder spar, however, keeps Orion from turning. “Have you energized this orn?” the leader asks, his vocals taking on a softer tone, his opposable talon stroking a soft path across the length of Orion's shoulder panel. That it leaves a streak of pleasure in its wake is no coincidence.  
  
Orion pauses. “Knock Out has yet to bring me my ration.” His gaze searches Megatron's faceplate, seeking some inkling of familiarity, some ghost of the past.  
  
There is nothing to be found in those red, red optics. “How fortunate.” Megatron's energy field flares out, not quite tentative, but not quite bold either. “You need to refuel. And it just so happens that I've several cubes of mid-grade in my quarters. You're welcome to them.”  
  
The rest of the invitation remains unspoken but Orion is hardly an idiot. He doesn't know why Megatron bothers with these thinly disguised overtures. Orion would have come without the allure of energon. He had never needed anything from Megatron before but the promise of Megatron's company and attention.  
  
“I should probably finish my work on the database,” Orion says, but his pedes are already moving to follow Megatron out of his tiny cubicle and into the main corridor.  
  
“It can wait. We have time to spare.” Megatron tosses him a crooked grin, a flash of sharpened denta. “The Autobots, after all, have no idea of our efforts.”  
  
The confidence Megatron bears is familiar at least. Orion cannot remember a time he has ever seen Megatronus uncertain over anything and this Megatron is no different.  
  
“If you insist,” Orion replies, watching the Decepticon leader's back, the way his thick armor shifts and glints in the lights of the Nemesis. He's even more powerful now than he had been as a gladiator, though the pitted scars give testament to many vorns spent in battle.  
  
“I do,” Megatron says, and there's promise in his optics.  
  
Orion knows, without having to ask, that he won't be returning to his cubicle before the orn is through.  
  


o0o0o

  
“You two stay with Bluestreak,” Arcee says at the first echoing noise of drilling in the long, twisting tunnels beneath Manhattan. Though why the Decepticons are drilling remains a mystery to them. Are they attempting to conceal another space bridge?  
  
Jack nods, completely understanding.  
  
Miko whines and stomps her feet. “Why?” she demands with long, exaggerated syllables, her arms crossed firmly over her chest. “We can't help you if you leave us behind!”  
  
Bluestreak, too, slumps a little, his doorwings losing their jaunty edge. “I really don't like being underground,” he mutters, giving Arcee hopeful, big-opticked looks that he's perfected over the vorn and make him really difficult to deny. “You might need more backup. We don't know who the Decepticons sent. It could be Megatron even!”  
  
“I sincerely doubt Megatron would stoop to this level,” Arcee replies dryly, not budging an inch. “And this is as close as I'm letting you two get,” she adds, redirecting her response to the two children.  
  
Another chorus of disappointment arose from both Bluestreak and Miko, but Jack only nodded his agreement more vigorously.  
  
Bumblebee makes a suggestion of contacting Jazz and that shuts Bluestreak right up. Miko still looks belligerent but Arcee's not having any of it. They've already lost Cliffjumper and Optimus. She's not adding one of the humans to her list.  
  
She and Bumblebee leave Bluestreak around the corner with the two children, and creep through the tunnels, following the sound of drilling. Arcee goes over the likely suspects. A team of vehicons, Knock Out and Breakdown. She highly doubts Soundwave is going to be skulking about down here and Starscream hasn't been seen since that incident with Airachnid.  
  
Though she doesn't discount the possibility that Megatron has somehow acquired reinforcements in the same manner that the Autobots have.  
  
\--You take the drones,-- Arcee says, pulling out her blasters in preparation. --I'll take care of whoever Megatron put in charge of them.--  
  
Bumblebee gives her a look. --Why do you get to have all the fun?--  
  
A grim smile pulls at Arcee's lipplates. --Because I said so.--  
  
They pause at a bend in the tunnels. Arcee peers around the corner, confirming her earlier suspicions. Breakdown and Knock Out plus a team of Decepticon miners. Too bad Bulkhead isn't here. He would have enjoyed another clash with his nemesis.  
  
There's a hole in the wall of the tunnels and Knock Out is stepping out of it, cradling something in his servos. A container of some sort with Cybertronian glyphs on the side that Arcee can't read from this distance. Whatever it is, Arcee's pretty sure that they don't want the Decepticons to have it.  
  
\--Change of plans. You get that thing. I'll take care of the enemy.--  
  
\--You sure?--  
  
Breakdown's large, but he's clumsy. Besides, all Arcee needs to do is distract them. And Bluestreak's just around the bend if they need back up.  
  
\--Positive.-- Arcee's optics swivel down, focusing as Knock Out takes the lid off the container and reaches inside, pulling out something that she can't identify. Possibly a weapon.  
  
\--Remember we can't afford to hesitate,-- she says to her current partner. --Even if he is Ratchet's.--  
  
The scout inclines his helm, plating clamped tight to his frame. --I know.-- There's a mournful edge to his transmission, the disappointment they all seem to share on Ratchet's behalf.  
  
Arcee doesn't like Sunstreaker, and she's fond of Knock Out even less, but she loathes above it all the pain she catches in Ratchet's optics at mere mention of their errant youngling.  
  
Cycling air through her vents, Arcee returns her attention to the Decepticons a mere thirty feet away. The sound of blasters charging up echoes in her audials, serving as Bumblebee's reply.  
  
They share another glance and then charge, blaster fire lighting up the passageway. One of Arcee's shots knocks out a miner and it's pure luck that they happen to attack from Breakdown's blind side.  
  
The battle is on.  
  


o0o0o

  
It's like the synthetic energon all over again, though Ratchet swears he has even less control over himself this time.  
  
He arches and makes noises he didn't know his vocalizer was capable of, dragging Sunstreaker against him, ruining the usually pristine finish. The heat that races through his lines feels molten and the scent of scorched wires sits in a heavy haze about their shared quarters. But it's not enough, he swears it isn't, and Ratchet is the first to crack his chestplates, the light of spark spilling into the bare distance between them.  
  
Sunstreaker looks at him, optics more white than blue, his hands in a deathly grip on Ratchet's hips as his own chestplates part. He looks half-drugged, too, a moan escaping as he pushes his spark energy against Ratchet's.  
  
Pleasure, thick and overwhelming, blasts through Ratchet's systems. His HUD screams warnings at him as electricity crawls across his frame. He in-vents and ex-vents so frantically it's merely a motion that does little to cool him down.  
  
Ratchet's spark swells, reaching out, enveloping Sunstreaker's own. He groans, helm knocking back, frame pressing toward Sunstreaker. Fingers dip between Ratchet's plating, stroking bundles of cables, not that the stimulation is necessary. Overload is within reach and it won't take much to push Ratchet over. It never does anymore.  
  
His spark is hungry for the extra energy, for the taste of Sunstreaker and their mingled energies. Sunstreaker says nothing, but his words are a rush of nonsense in Ratchet's audials. The dim lights of the medbay ceiling are a blur of flickering color. His sensors are overly sensitive, responding to the slightest stroke with blinding bursts of pleasure.  
  
Ratchet moans, half-pain and half-pleasure, clinging to Sunstreaker as his spark pulses out and the pleasure crests over him in a bursting wave. He overloads loudly, St. Elmo's fire lighting up the room, hydraulics stiffening.  
  
Sunstreaker makes a helpless noise, pulled into Ratchet's overload with one of his own, defenseless to the demanding pull of Ratchet's fostering protocols.  
  
Pain bleeds into the pleasure as Ratchet twitches, gasping for an in-vent, his system straining under the influx of another's spark energy. He can feel as it wraps around his spark, filters through the fostering system, and tries to contain itself within the meager confines of his spark chamber.  
  
Ratchet heaves, pushing Sunstreaker off and away as he lurches to his side just as his chestplate slams closed, trapping the extra energies behind it. His tanks lurch, optics offlining as his entire frame trembles.  
  
The closer to splitting he gets, the more it's going to hurt. Part of him doesn't want to go endure that agony again. But he knows it's too late. Whether he terminates or sees this through to the end, Ratchet's going to be in pain. It's inevitable by this point.  
  
He feels Sunstreaker's hand on his shoulder, gripping, comforting. The frontliner's engine rumbles a soothing vibration against Ratchet's backplate. It eases the ache, if only the little.  
  
“Ratchet?”  
  
“Fine.”  
  
Sunstreaker snorts. “No, you're not.”  
  
Ratchet doesn't bother to retort. The last of the tremors are working their way through his plating now. His spark starts to settle within his chassis, though he still feels swollen, like someone's set his wiring on fire and won't let him put it out.  
  
There's a creak as Sunstreaker shifts on the berth, settling behind Ratchet while he continues his lazy, soft stroking and the comforting purr of his engine. “It's only four and a half more orns.”  
  
“Easy for you to say,” Ratchet grumbles and works his intakes a few times before his tanks settle. At least this time he didn't purge. It was humiliating enough this morning.  
  
“Need a cube?”  
  
“Primus, no!” Just the idea of ingesting anything right now threatens to start the churning all over again.  
  
Sunstreaker huffs. “I'm trying to help here.”  
  
“I know.” Ratchet in-vents and ex-vents, attempting to find calm and having a hard time locating it around the intense sensation of being overenergized. “But Primus, I don't remember it being this awful the first time around.”  
  
He feels more than sees Sunstreaker go utterly still behind him. “You changing your mind?”  
  
Ratchet clenches one hand into a low fist. “Not even remotely what I said.” He onlines his optics, though the dim light is far too bright to be soothing. “You do realize we're going to need a protoform?”  
  
Sunstreaker's energy field tentatively brushes against his own, ripe with apology. “Yes. How soon?”  
  
“Within the next four and a half orns,” Ratchet retorts dryly and some of the tension in his hydraulics eases as the throbbing pain slacks off a fraction. “Once the bitlet splits, we have an orn, maybe two, before the spark'll start to degrade without a protoform of its own.”  
  
“That doesn't give us much time.”  
  
“You're slagging right it doesn't.” Ratchet winces but forces himself to shift, turning to face Sunstreaker. “I can't build a protoform from scrap. Not with the resources we have here.”  
  
Sunstreaker's helm dips. “What are you saying?”  
  
“That if we want our bitlet to have a protoform, we're going to have to acquire a frame.” Ratchet hisses a ventilation. “And the only spare parts lying around are Decepticon drones.”  
  
Disgust radiates from Sunstreaker's energy field with such virulence that it crashes against Ratchet's like a slap to the faceplate. “My youngling is not going to be housed in a drone frame made of mass-produced parts!” Apparently the fact that they are Decepticon parts is what bothers him the least.  
  
Ratchet frowns. “We don't have a choice. Unless Prowl arrives with a protoform conveniently on board, we have to work with what we have.” Like Ratchet's been doing for the past three years in fact as he struggles to keep the Autobots together on scraped together machinery and glitched human tech.  
  
Sunstreaker throws himself from the berth, jarring Ratchet's tender frame and provoking a hiss of discomfort. “There has to be another way.”  
  
“There isn't.” Ratchet forces himself upright, leaning heavily against the wall next to the berth as he regards his short-tempered bondmate. He can guess what Sunstreaker is thinking. “Even if I did have access to top of the line parts, I'd still need two or three mechs to help me put one together this quickly. Last time we were lucky.”  
  
Lucky that they knew Jazz and he pulled a lot of strings and made a lot of shady dealings and procured them a high-end protoform that impressed even the highly selective Sunstreaker.  
  
A flurry of emotions flicker across Sunstreaker's faceplate. “I don't like this,” he says, energy field a whirl of discontent. “How can we do better if we fail him from the start?”  
  
Ratchet winces, hand rising to his chestplate, where the metal positively thrums from the extra energy swirling in his chamber. “It's not a fail--”  
  
“It is!” Sunstreaker cuts him off with a snarl, one hand slicing through the air. “Primus, I'm a glitch. I'm repeating the same mistakes as my fragging genitors.” He presses a hand to his forehelm, optics darkening from distress. “I should have known better. I should have... Argh. Sideswipe was fragging right!”  
  
One fist slams into the wall, denting the cheap metal straight through to the rock wall behind it. Ratchet wants to say something comforting, but a stab of pain hits him just then and the words get buried.  
  
Not that it matters, he supposes, because Sunstreaker chooses that moment to whirl toward the door, storming out of the medbay without so much as a by-your-leave. Considering the unrest in his energy field, and the conflicting emotions Ratchet's sensing through their bond, perhaps it is for the best.  
  
Ratchet sighs and tries to get comfortable on the berth. --Ratchet to Jazz.--  
  
\--What's up, doc-bot?-- Jazz is far too cheerful for Ratchet's comfort.  
  
\--Sunstreaker's on a rampage. Just thought I'd warn you.--  
  
Jazz's concern is clear as day across the comm line. --Am I gonna need some heavy-hittin' back up or should I let the cranky cornflower drive it out?--  
  
\--Let him drive. If Sideswipe's free, send him after. Or Bluestreak.--  
  
The worry mellows into faint amusement. --Swipe's on his way. Blue's on a mission.--  
  
Ratchet's been pretty much attached to this berth since he and Sunstreaker committed themselves to fostering another youngling. Clearly, this has put him out of the loop. --Mission?--  
  
\--Cons in Manhattan. We got it handled.-- Jazz's tone is flippant but Ratchet's worked with the saboteur too long to know when he's faking. --What crawled up Sunny's aft?--  
  
\--Reality.-- Ratchet offlines his optics, contemplating a brief affair with recharge. Only he'll need a cube when he wakes and he doesn't fancy the torturous walk to the cabinet. --I'm going to need a frame, Jazz. Megatron tends to leave them lying around.--  
  
Jazz hums in understanding. --Gotcha. I'll do what I can. You in need of anythin'?--  
  
\--I'm fine.--  
  
\--I'm sendin' Percy to check on ya anyway.--  
  
Ratchet rolls his optics but doesn't fight the inevitable. –If you must. Ratchet, out.-- He doesn't give Jazz the opportunity to retort, cutting off the comm.  
  
He doesn't need to hear the saboteur to know that Jazz is smug from helm to pede anyway. Thank Primus Prowl will be arriving soon.  
  
Resigned, Ratchet gets comfortable on the berth and waits for Perceptor. At least then he can have the scientist bring him a cube so he can recharge.  
  


****


	4. Chapter 4

“Slagging Autobots!” Knock Out snarls as he storms into the Nemesis' medbay, frame aching from helm to pede and his finish in even worse condition. “Soft-sparked, cheating, useless, fraggers!”  
  
He lashes out, knocking over a magnifying lamp and watching it crash to the floor with an air of mild satisfaction.  
  
Bad enough that he let the Autobots defeat him. Bad enough that he failed Megatron and let the Autobots get away with the artifact. Worse that he's now in this terrible state and there's not a fragged thing he can do about it because Breakdown's unconscious. Mech made the mistake of stepping on the third rail, which Knock Out warned him about three times, the clumsy oaf!  
  
Frag it all to the Pit!  
  
“Are you all right?”  
  
Knock Out whirls, spark pounding behind his chestplate at the unexpected vocals. No mech ever comes to the medbay. At least, not any that are conscious!  
  
“Orion,” he greets, optics spiraling outward, betraying his surprise. “You... what are you doing here? Are you damaged?”  
  
He snaps into action, bringing a scanner to bear. His own wrecked paint job aside, Primus forbid Orion should be so much as scratched. Megatron would have Knock Out's plating, tear his helm from his shoulders, and sell the rest of him for scrap!  
  
Orion waves him off with an amused sort of patience. “I should ask you the same question. You look...”  
  
“Scratched all to Pit,” Knock Out grumbles as his scanner beeps a negative at him. Orion is the picture of health. “Blame the Autobots. They got lucky.” He puts away his equipment and plants his hands on his hips, looking up at the taller mech. “Shouldn't you be working?”  
  
At this, Orion's optics shift away in telltale embarrassment. “I intend to return to my duties shortly. I am in need of... filler.”  
  
Understanding dawns and Knock Out takes another look at the mech. Sure enough, there are streaks of silver compromising the usual red and blue plating.  
  
Knock Out rolls his optics. Megatron might as well have stamped the glyphs for possession on Orion's helm. Subtle, thy Lord is not. Apparently, one can take the mech out of the ring but not the gladiator out of the mech. Classy, thy Lord is not.  
  
Foregoing his own awful state for the moment, Knock Out turns, gesturing for Orion to follow him. “Lucky for you, we have plenty in our stocks.” True most of it is Knock Out's personal store. He wouldn't waste it on the nameless, faceless drones but he can spare some for poor Orion. The once-Prime has no idea how in over his helm he really is.  
  
“If it's not too much trouble,” Orion says, though he does follow Knock Out, managing to loom without trying.  
  
Knock Out supposes the once-upon-a-Prime can't help the fact that he towers over nearly everyone on this ship except for Lord Megatron himself. Though it's a curious fact that a supposed data clerk is so very large in the first place.  
  
“I can't do much for my own state until my clumsy assistant wakes his aft up anyway,” Knock Out replies though the moment he shoves the filler into Orion's hand, he's making a beeline for the washracks. The least he can do is wash off the grit and grime.  
  
Besides, helping Orion look fresh as new and too-shiny-to-resist might be a point in Knock Out's favor. Help him avoid the infamous wrath of Megatron due to the failed mission.  
  
“This mission... was it related to the coordinates I deciphered from Project Iacon?” Orion asks.  
  
Knock Out pauses in the doorway to the storage room, casting the data clerk an askance look. “Didn't Lord Megatron tell you?”  
  
Orion's gaze is not on him, but distant, as though his processor is elsewhere. “He is a busy mech. Often there is little time left for conversation.”  
  
This speaks way more of what goes on behind the closed doors of Megatron's quarters than Knock Out wants to know. Granted, the mental image of Megatron and Orion Pax entwined is enough to heat the systems of any mech with a working interface drive. But sometimes knowing the particulars about one's superior can be... disorientating.  
  
Aside from all that, Orion's starting to get inquisitive. Or rather, he has been curious but is only now starting to vocalize that curiosity.  
  
How much longer will the ruse stand under Orion's scrutiny, Knock Out wonders. And what will happen when Megatron is forced to either let Orion go or terminate his berth-warmer. It just might snap what is left of his leader's sanity.  
  
Knock Out steps back into the storage room, scanning the shelves for a generic filler that Orion's paint nanites can adapt into the perfect shade.  
  
“I see,” he replies, a perfectly bland answer that doesn't confirm or deny Orion's curiosity and plants a broad smile on his lipplate. “Ah, here's what you're looking for.”  
  
He snatches up the small tube and presents it to Orion with a flourish. “Sure to fill in and fix all those pesky scratches and scrapes.”  
  
“Thank you. But--”  
  
“No need to thank me. I'm just doing my duty. Anything for the Decepticon cause.” Knock Out doesn't give Orion a chance to ask more questions, shooing the former Prime out of the storage room and giving him a push toward the exit. “Now it's back to work for both of us. The war won't win itself.”  
  
Orion is too mild-mannered to dig in his pedes to protest, so he submits to Knock Out's ushering and heads right for the door. “If you insist.”  
  
“I do.”  
  
Knock Out gives Orion one last push and then closes the door to the medbay behind the former Autobot. He utters a sigh of relief. Rude, yes? But safer in the long run. Knock Out doesn't want to be the one fool on the whole ship who says the wrong thing.  
  
Running a hand down his faceplate, Knock Out catches a glimpse of his finish in the mirror. He scowls.  
  
To the washracks it is.

 

o0o0o

Perceptor frowns as he examines the object Arcee and Bumblebee had brought him. It is a small cylinder with Cybertronian markings on the outside. The language is old, but not so that Prowl is unfamiliar with it. The origins are Iacon, from the Archives as a matter of fact.

Optimus, as Orion Pax, had worked in the Archives. Is there a connection?

“What was it?” Sideswipe asks, perching on a nearby crate and idly fiddling with one of Ratchet's tools. He ought to know better but frankly, so long as he is over _there_ and not over _here_ interfering, Perceptor isn't about to chastise him. 

Perceptor must admit curiosity of his own. “I do not know.” He sets the cylinder aside and reaches for the weapon it had contained.

This needs no explanation. He had recognized the phase shifter on sight. It is an Autobot artifact, once stolen by the Decepticons but then recovered and locked away for safekeeping. The risk of it being taken again had far outweighed its value in the field.

“What is such a weapon doing here?” Perceptor murmurs. 

The phase shifter is in perfect condition. It functions as well though Perceptor finds a reluctance to suggest using it for the same reason it had been locked away in the first place. The greater question is how it arrived on Earth and how the Decepticons knew to look for it.

“Blue says Knock Out was drilling there and only there,” Sideswipe says, tossing a mini-welder from one hand to the other. “They knew they were looking for something. They knew where to look.” 

Perceptor inclines his helm and sets the phase shifter back down. Perhaps the cylinder holds more clues. It had been stored in Iacon. The cylinder is from Iacon. Somehow, an artifact from Iacon had been buried on Earth.

Curious.

“Perhaps Megatron has more reason to be pleased with Optimus' memory loss than the obvious,” he suggests, and picks up a sheet, wiping more dirt away from the cylinder's casing. 

“You think there are more?” 

Perceptor's targeting lens flips up and out of the way, replacing itself with his microscope lens so that he might examine the cylinder's construction. “I think that we must all be very, very careful in monitoring the Decepticons. Because we prevented them from obtaining this, but there were far more dangerous items stored in the Archives. It is a good thing you convinced your brother to return.”

Sideswipe rolls his shoulders. “Yeah, well, convincing Sunstreaker is part of my job.” His tone holds an edge of bitterness.

Perceptor briefly looks up, sparing his travel-mate a commiserating look. “You have both suffered these millennia. I have faith that you will reunite with First Aid. I was right about Ratchet, was I not?”

Sideswipe cracks a grin at him, a much better look for the frontliner. “You're right about everything, Perceptor.”

“Well, perhaps not everything.” He hums a noncommittal tune and returns his attention to the cylinder. “Now let's see what else I can discover. Can you hand me a spectrograph?” 

Sideswipe hops down from the crate and stretches his arms over his helm. “Good thing I wasted so much time at Ratchet's. There's one right over here.”

Perceptor smiles.

Distraction found.

 

0o0o0

  
  
“You ever thought about sparklings?”  
  
Jazz stirs from a half-doze, onlining his optics. “Hmm?”  
  
Bluestreak lifts his helm from where it's been resting on Jazz's chassis, his finger trailing a nonsense rhythm down Jazz's side panels. “Sparklings. You ever wanted any? Ratchet and Sunny trying again's made me think about it and I know the All Spark is gone so we can't really go that route anymore. But I still wonder...”  
  
“Well,” Jazz replies, reaching down to brush a hand over Bluestreak's helm, caressing the sensor-laden chevron. “I can't say I've ever considered it, sweetspark.”  
  
Bluestreak props his chin on his palm, giving Jazz a doe-opticked look. “But you're thinking about it now, right?”  
  
“I suppose I am.” Jazz shifts his attention to Bluestreak's doorwing, exploring the strangeness of it and the new Earth kibble not present beforehand. Such as the handle and the locks. “I don't really think I'm the nurturin' type.”  
  
The All Spark is gone. Not that it really matters because Jazz knows they wouldn't have been approved for a sparkling anyway. Though Jazz is old enough that he has the same reproductive system installed that Ratchet does. He's never been interested in testing it out though. Having a bond is one thing. Splitting his devotion to include a youngling is a whole different ballpark.  
  
Bluestreak chuckles even as a shiver races across his plating, energy field swelling with interest. “And you think Sunny is? Or Ratchet for that matter? The Hatchet himself?”  
  
Jazz's lipplates pull into a grin. “Doc's got a spark of gold under all that bluster. And ya'd be surprised how much of a motherhen Sunstreaker can be. Never saw a prouder genitor, I swear ta Primus.”  
  
Bluestreak's engine rumbles, sending vibrations over their shared berth. “Hnn. Doesn't really answer my question though.” He peers up at Jazz, all curious optics that refuse to be distracted by Jazz's nimble fingers.  
  
“Ya want sparklings, Blue? Is that it?”  
  
His mate shrugs his shoulders, pressing his doorwing against Jazz's hand. “No. Not right now, of course. But maybe some orn. If we survive this war.” Bluestreak's shoulder lifts and drops again. “I don't know. Maybe I'll change my mind. Maybe you will. Who knows? It doesn't matter though.”  
  
Jazz's free hand cups Bluestreak's helm and he gently pulls Bluestreak up, until their forehelms come into contact. “Ask me again when the war's over.”  
  
“You actually believe it's going to end?”  
  
“I'd better.” Jazz's lipplates pull into a tight smile. “Else what th' frag am I doin' here?”  
  
Bluestreak smirks, resting his weight on Jazz's chassis with a creak of metal. “We don't have anywhere else to go. Cybertron's scrap. Velocitron's on it's last cycles. Junkion's junk. No one wants us. Not even the humans.”  
  
Hmm. He does have a point.  
  
Jazz rests a hand on the lower curve of Bluestreak's backstrut. “You make it sound like its hopeless no matter what we do.”  
  
“Not hopeless,” Bluestreak corrects. “But I stopped thinking we'd all make it a long time ago.”  
  
“When did I turn into the optimistic one?” Jazz asks, a bitter laugh escaping his vocalizer. “Primus, Blue.”  
  
His mate's engine revs, the vibrations traveling through Jazz's frame. “Well, one of us has to keep a level helm. Be realistic.” Despite the serious nature of his words, Jazz doesn't miss the teasing tone to Bluestreak's vocals.  
  
He shakes his helm, dragging fingers further down, investigating a gap in Bluestreak's plating, one that's still new and unfamiliar to him. “Is that so? I'm an idealist, is that it?”  
  
“The worst kind there is,” Bluestreak teases, doorwings perking above him, energy field flaring his interest.  
  
\--Jazz! We've got Decepticons incoming!--  
  
The near-yell across Jazz's internal comm makes him jerk on the berth, springing upright and almost tossing Bluestreak to the floor. His mate makes an uncoordinated flail, a surprised urk escaping his vocalizer.  
  
\--I thought the Nemesis was cloaked?-- Jazz demands as Bluestreak scrambles off of him, leaving him free to slide from the berth. He tosses his mate an apologetic grin but Blue's already waving him off.  
  
\--This isn't the Nemesis,-- Arcee says, currently the 'Bot on monitor duty, a task split amongst the Autobots as Ratchet's on medleave. --This is a new arrival.--  
  
New Decepticons? Fraggit. The last thing they need right now is for Megatron to get reinforcements. Primus must have it out for the Autobots. Just when they have the slightest edge...  
  
Jazz shakes his helm and hurries out of the tiny room he's sharing with Bluestreak, pelting down the corridor toward the main room. If there's an attack, Fowler's going to be demanding answers. Innocent lives could be lost.  
  
\--ETA?--  
  
\--That's just it,-- Arcee replies. --I'd expect hard and fast, but instead, they're coming in slow and cautious. I almost didn't find the signal either. It was buried in some Earth noise.--  
  
Jazz bursts into the command hub and skids to a halt as the last of Arcee's words travels over the line. Caution? Signals buried in Earth chatter?  
  
His optics flick up to the main screen, which is tracking the vector of the incoming shuttle. “Those aren't Decepticons!” Jazz exclaims, picking up his pedes again and racing to the console, shouldering Arcee aside. Behind him, he can hear the other Autobots on base making their appearance, no doubt summoned by Arcee. “That's Prowl!”  
  
“What the frag is he doing broadcasting as a Decepticon?”  
  
Jazz's fingers fly over the keyboard, cursing over his ventilations as the stupid human tech moves too slow. “He must've hijacked some Decepticon's ride.” He grins, chuckling to himself. “That's Prowl for ya.”  
  
“It still doesn't make any sense,” Sideswipe blurts out, approaching from Jazz's left side, anxiety swirling in his field. “He should be trying to hide.”  
  
“He is and he isn't.” Jazz shakes his helm, unable to quell the rising excitement as it crashes into understanding and Prowl's intentions start to unfold in his helm. “He wants Megatron's attention.”  
  
He can feel the startled stares on his backplate. Well, none of them have known Prowl as long as he has, save for Bluestreak.  
  
Jazz doesn't bother to fight his grin. There's a reason Prowl is Prime's favorite tactician, even if he had fallen out of favor with the rest of Autobot High Command. Megatron's never going to see this coming.  
  
“This doesn't make any sense!” Bulkhead bellows, throwing his arms into the air. “He's going to get himself killed.”  
  
“No, he's not.” Jazz whirls around, searching the crowd for a specific faceplate. “Perceptor, can you lock the ground bridge onto the shuttle?”  
  
The scientist takes a step back. “So you can bring it here?”  
  
“Nope.” Jazz grins wolfishly, optics brightening. “So you can send me there.”  
  
“Jazz,” Bluestreak says, worry infecting his tone. “You're not doing what I think you're doing, are you? That's the quick way to a sure offlining.”  
  
“He's right,” Arcee agrees, folding her arms across her chestplate with a frown. “Soundwave's on the Nemesis. No way you can sneak around there without being caught.”  
  
Jazz ignores both of them. “Can ya do it or not, Perce? I need to know.”  
  
Perceptor clicks his fingers together, a telltale sign of his disapproval. “I can but--”  
  
“Good. Get it set up then.” Jazz whirls away from the console. “Bee. Bulk. We got anythin' around here I can use? Paint? Spare platin'? Somethin'?”  
  
Bumblebee and Bulkhead trade glances. Arcee's energy field whirls with a hotbed of dissension and irritation. And Jazz can feel Bluestreak across their link, frazzled with worry and seeking answers.  
  
Jazz waves his hands through the air. “C'mon, mechs. We don't have a lot of time. Soundwave's gonna latch on to Prowl's signal soon enough and once they start investigatin', that's our cue.”  
  
Sideswipe groans, holding his helm. “You're not making any sense, Jazz.”  
  
“It's not going to work!” Arcee shouts, optics flashing with anger. “Slag it, Jazz. We can't lose you and Prime both.”  
  
“Yer not goin' to,” Jazz says, plating starting to vibrate from both excitement and the urgency of the situation. “I can't sneak around the Nemesis, sure enough, but I won't have to. I'm going to be invited.”  
  
“Oh, that makes even less sense,” Sideswipe drawls.  
  
“No. I understand.” Bluestreak's calm tones slice through the increasingly irate atmosphere.  
  
Jazz looks to his mate, who is slowly nodding his helm. “You're using Ricochet, aren't you?” Bluestreak asks.  
  
“Got it in one, sweetspark,” Jazz replies and whirls back toward the Autobots. “No time to explain. Seriously. If we want to figure out where exactly Prime is and what's going on we have to take this chance. Now. Bee?”  
  
The yellow scout tosses off a human salute and races from the room, used to, at least, taking orders from Jazz. Bulkhead mutters something but stalks after his teammate, hopefully to procure everything Jazz needs. This isn't going to be perfect but Jazz'll have to make do.  
  
It's what he's good at, after all. It's the reason he accepted the position as Prime's third-in-command and head of special ops.  
  
“Perce?”  
  
The scientist's fingers fly over the keyboard, the targeting lens over his right optic flicking up and out of the way. “At my current calculations, you have ten minutes. Maybe less.”  
  
“Better than I could've hoped. Thanks,” Jazz says and turns, only to come faceplate to near-chestplate with his taller mate. “Blue--”  
  
A hand hooks in his chassis, dragging him close. “I hate it when you do this,” Bluestreak says, subvocally so that only Jazz can hear. “And I hate Ricochet even more.”  
  
“Ya know I gotta do this,” Jazz replies, keeping his vocals low as well.  
  
“I wasn't trying to stop you,” Bluestreak retorts with an exasperated huff of his vents. “Just be careful.”  
  
Jazz grins cheekily. “Aren't I always?”  
  
“You better make this worth it, too.” Bluestreak ignores his good humor, doorwings hiked and rigid behind him. “Bring back Prime.”  
  
Jazz swamps their bond with reassurance, love, and determination. He's coming back with Prime if he has to throw the mech over his shoulders and jump out the cargo bay mid-air. The Autobots need Optimus.  
  
And he's pretty sure it's the other way around, too.  
  
Bulkhead and Bumblebee choose that moment to clamber back into main ops, loaded down with bits and pieces of scrap plating, odds and ends, and a half-empty can of paint. Unfortunately, they also bring Ratchet with them.  
  
Jazz steps away from Bluestreak with a pat to his mate's shoulder, trying to get Bluestreak out of the blast zone. Ratchet, on a good day, is blustery and short-tempered and snappish. Ratchet heavy-full with energy as his sparks spins and spins toward splitting, is practically a dragon with smoke coming out of its ears.  
  
“Jazz, what the frag are you thinking?” Ratchet demands as he storms into ops, Sunstreaker on his heelstruts and not looking inclined to restrain his rampaging mate in the slightest. “This is the stupidest idea I've seen out of you yet!”  
  
Jazz cycles a ventilation just to keep himself calm as he stuffs the bits and pieces Bee gives him into every nook and cranny. “Ya don't have a better one and I'm not gonna sit around and wait. We aren't gonna get a chance like this again.”  
  
Ratchet's hands fly into the air, his energy field a raging torrent that slams against Jazz with the force of a physical blow. “You have no plan or any clue what Megatron's going to do. You're going to get yourself killed. You--”  
  
Ratchet suddenly breaks off, slumping a little as one hand clutches at his chestplates, a huff of pain escaping his vocalizer.  
  
Sunstreaker instantly appears at his side, reaching for his arm but Ratchet smacks it away. “I'm fine,” he snarls.  
  
“Hardly,” Jazz says, not missing the look Sunstreaker shoots his mate but wisely backing off. Dear Primus but all that they need right now is for Sunny and Ratch to have another of their infamous spats.  
  
“Jazz!”  
  
He turns his attention to Perceptor, whose gesturing to the screen in frantic bursts of energy. “You've got a minute.”  
  
Frag. He's out of time.  
  
“I'm doin' this, Ratch,” Jazz says, not sparing the medic a look, his focus saved for the monitors and the ground bridge that Perceptor has summoned to existence. “Ya can thank me later.”  
  
Ratchet splutters, but despite the energy streaking through his spark, he doesn't have it to spare for the effort of arguing. He all but deflates, slagging against Sunstreaker, and from a lateral sensor, Jazz can see the despaired hope in Ratchet's optics.  
  
“It's time,” Perceptor announces over the thin tension in the air, the sound of the ground bridge powering into existence a loud roar to Jazz's audials.  
  
Jazz inclines his helm, feeling the weight of the Autobots' stare on his plating. He sends a pulse of affection and promise to his bonded, and then heads for the ground bridge at a run, knowing that space on the shuttle will be too confined for him to appear in vehicle mode.  
  
\--See you soon,-- Bluestreak says across a private comm.  
  
Jazz smiles and hurries through the ground bridge, the eerie sensation of distance warping around him attacking his systems. There's light and sound and color, all at once, and then he's stepping into a dark, confined space, coming faceplate to faceplate with one of the few mechs he's ever considered family.  
  
“Prowl,” Jazz greets with a half-afted wave, glancing past the tactician to see First Aid, the medic's faceplates pinched with a mix of worry and anticipation. “Fancy meeting you here.”  
  
Prowl's lipplates quirk with his version of a grin, the sort of look that used to make Autobot miscreants shake in their pedes. “I see you received my message.”  
  
Jazz arches his orbital ride. “Yer broadcasting a Decepticon signal. What else was I supposed ta think?” He props his hands on his hips, looking around at the dusty, battered innards of the spaceship. “Nice ride ya got here. Cozy. Who was nice enough to give it to ya?”  
  
“Prowl?” Mirage's vocals echo around them, staticked and tinny through the craft's ancient speakers. “We've got company.”  
  
Prowl steps back, giving Jazz further leave to enter the shuttle. “Take evasive action,” the tactician announces. “Broadcast an emergency situation on all Autobot channels.”  
  
“Yes sir,” Mirage replies and the speakers cut off with an audible burst of static.  
  
Jazz grins. “Does he call you that in the berth, too?”  
  
First Aid makes a stifled noise that may or may not be amusement. Prowl simply gives Jazz a flat look, a very familiar look that Jazz cherishes.  
  
“Whom did you select?” Prowl asks, gesturing for Jazz to follow him and completely ignoring Jazz's query.  
  
“Ricochet.”  
  
Prowl's doorwings arch into a high configuration, his pace slow and measured. “Would not Razorwire better suit? Or even Slipstrike?”  
  
“Knock Out doesn't know Ricochet.”  
  
Prowl half-turns before he reaches a doorway, optics bright with confusion. “Knock Out?”  
  
The shuttle around them suddenly gives a terrible shudder, and Jazz reaches out a hand to steady himself, noting that Prowl and First Aid do as well. Apparently, their “company” is on the unfriendly side, and since they are still shielding, Jazz doesn't think it's the humans. Time, once again, is against him.  
  
“Ask Ratch,” Jazz replies as he feels the craft yaw sharply to the left, Mirage attempting to dodge the weapons fire. “It's a long story.”  
  
Another harsh rumble wracks the shuttle. The consoles flicker and then emergency lights burst on, flashing orange and red, as alarms blare an annoying caution.  
  
Jazz winces, pushing past Prowl to step into a corridor, where a porthole gives him a view of blue sky, clouds, and Decepticon Eradicons streaking past. A Decepticon ship broadcasting Autobot emergencies? It's too tantalizing for Megatron to ignore.  
  
“And we don't have the time,” Jazz says, turning back toward Prowl and First Aid, the latter of which whose visor has gone flat with worry and alarm.  
  
“First Aid, assist Mirage in the bridge,” Prowl commands, though his gaze does not wander from Jazz's.  
  
“Yes sir.”  
  
The Protectobot leaves, carefully however, considering that Mirage's piloting skills leave much to be desired. That at least, Jazz notices, hasn't changed. Mirage may be a crack shooter, but he never has been able to steer worth a frag.  
  
“Are you certain you wish to do this?” Prowl asks, his energy field lightly flexing outward, brushing against Jazz's with a light pulse of relieved happiness at finally laying optics on one another again.  
  
Jazz nods, his gaze flickering to the window. Somewhere, in the wide yonder, is Prime. And he's going to get Optimus back. “I wouldn't be here if I wasn't.”  
  
“Very well.” Prowl lifts his helm, expression set with determination. “Then I wish you good luck.”  
  
Jazz grins, visor flashing. “Don't need luck when ya got skills like mine.” He straightens, already activating several subroutines, preparing himself for the shift. “We're gonna have to do this the hard way. Quick and dirty. Try not to have too much fun.”  
  
“Do I ever?” Prowl's lipplates quirk in the closest thing he has to a grin, and that's when he punches Jazz in the faceplate.  
  
Ah, good times.  


 

o0o0o

  
  
“Well, that was fun,” Breakdown gripes as he picks up a piece of charred metal and tosses it over his shoulder.  
  
“I don't think fun is what Lord Megatron had in mind,” Airachnid retorts, her vocals a low purr probably intended to entice.  
  
Knock Out rolls his optics, a shiver of disgust crawling up his backstrut. There's not enough creds in the universe for him to take that creature to berth...  
  
“He can't really think we're going to find anything useful in this scrap, does he?” Breakdown continues, ignoring Airachnid as he shoves aside a chunk of something with his pede. Mangled berth perhaps.  
  
Knock Out ignores his partner's griping, taking a pointed step back to avoid the dust and debris both Decepticons are stirring. This is ruining his paint job, and he'd just gotten it fixed, frag it!  
  
Still, Breakdown has a point. The ramshackle little shuttle that the Autobots had somehow stolen and then crashed doesn't seem like it could possibly contain anything of value. And the Autobots had quickly fled when Megatron had arrived on scene, vanishing into their ground bridge with only a few parting shots of both the blaster fire and insult kind. The femme had screamed some demand about Prime's location, until the large green one hauled her back through the bridge.  
  
Cowards. The entire lot of them. And their numbers are growing. Knock Out had recognized Prowl and First Aid, but the third wasn't as familiar to him. There is a hint of something, a nudge to his memory core, but he still can't place the near-solid white mech. Corruption to his databanks perhaps. He'll have to do a defrag and scan later.  
  
“Knock Out!”  
  
Something pings off the side of his helm.  
  
Knock Out whirls, a snarl on his vocalizer, tracking the trajectory of the projectile, talons gleaming in the sunlight. “Glitch! What the frag do you want?”  
  
Breakdown gives him a bland look, flicking another piece of debris at his chestplate and forcing Knock Out to twist to avoid it. “I know you're afraid of dirt and all but I'm not doing all the dirty work this time.”  
  
“Why not? I hear it's what you're good at,” Knock Out retorts, a smirk pulling his lipplates, even as he reaches up, lightly searching for a mark or dirt left on his helm.  
  
A loud crashing noise interrupts the verbal banter and Knock Out shifts, spotting Megatron as he emerges from the wreckage of the Decepticon shuttle, dragging somemech behind him. The stranger looks to be in terrible condition, his frame dented and energon streaked, his visor cracked and sputtering. Some of his plating is missing, even, and one leg refuses to cooperate, which explains why Megatron is more or less hauling the mech.  
  
“Knock Out,” Lord Megatron barks as he tosses the damaged mech ahead of him, the poor scrap falling to the ground with a vocalized oomph. “Get to work.”  
  
“Uh, yes, Lord Megatron.” Knock Out hurries to the mech's side, though he's curious as to why he needs to fix this mech.  
  
Isn't he an Autobot? Though if he were, Knock Out is quite surprised that the Autobots would leave one of their own behind. Usually, at any rate. Certainly his genitors had no compunction about abandoning him after the fall of Uraya.  
  
Or... no. There is a Decepticon sigil on both thighs, though one is raked through as if by talons, the other melted near to slag. A consequence of the crash or a result of being in Autobot custody?  
  
“But, if I might ask, who is this?”  
  
Lord Megatron sneers, his red optics cold as they stare at the collapsed mech, whose vents are struggling to draw in cooling bursts of air. “One of our own, returned to us from Autobot clutches.”  
  
Hmm.  
  
Knock Out scans the mech, ident codes pinging back the designation Ricochet. Not a mech he's heard mention before. Then again, the Decepticons have been scattered all over the universe, just like the Autobots.  
  
“I assume this vessel was his?”  
  
“Fraggin' Autobots,” Ricochet snarls, vocalizer glitching with static as he attempts to sit up, but only succeeds in flopping around. “Can't a mech recharge without being stabbed in the backplate anymore?”  
  
Lord Megatron's stare remains unwavering. “So you say,” he replies, but it's clear that the Decepticon leader is not wholly convinced of Ricochet's story, whatever it might be.  
  
Knock Out's scan completes with a tell-tale beep. “Lord Megatron,” he says, fingers tapping over the device. “He's battered and low on energon, but in no immediate danger of offlining.”  
  
“Curious,” Lord Megatron replies. “And how fortunate for you, Ricochet, that the Autobots aren't inclined to torture.”  
  
“Oh yeah. It was practically a vacation, chained up in my own hold while the Praxian interrogated me at all joors of the orn.” Ricochet's lipplates droop in a lazy, insubordinate grin.  
  
Lord Megatron's optics flash with irritation, talons curling into a fist. Knock Out knows that look, knows it all too well, and it doesn't take a tactician to guess what's coming next.  
  
“Perhaps, Lord Megatron,” he hastily inserts before they all have to stand here and watch Megatron add more dents to the new mech's pathetic plating, “Ricochet will have more information once he's refueled.”  
  
Ricochet lolls against the ground, a mad look to his cracked visor that speaks of a mech with a wish to offline. Perhaps he's provoking Lord Megatron on purpose? Though what that might accomplish Knock Out can't guess. Masochistic? Hah. He and Starscream would have gotten along well then.  
  
Megatron makes a noise of disdain. “Time is being wasted here anyway. Decepticons, return to the Nemesis. Soundwave, send the bridge.”  
  
Ricochet neither looks relieved nor grateful, despite the fact Knock Out's managed to spare him a brutal beatdown. He starts to laugh, subvocally, an arrhythmic rasp of his vocalizer that sounds less sane and more deranged. What on Cyberton had the Autobots done to him?  
  
Knock Out reaches for the mech's arm, hauling him up as the ground bridge swirls into view. Ricochet is of a height with him, though weighing significantly less with great portions of his plating missing.  
  
“Mmm,” Ricochet purrs, pressing closer to Knock Out's side. “Aren't you a pretty one. Gonna be my new best friend?”  
  
Torn between feeling flattered and outraged, Knock Out jerks on Ricochet, perhaps a little harsher than he ought, and tows the new mech toward the ground bridge.  
  
“Breakdown,” Megatron commands, as always preferring to be the last to enter the ground bridge in a near-peaceful situation. “Salvage what is useful of the shuttle. Destroy the rest.”  
  
Knock Out throws a smirk over his shoulder. Stuck with the dirty work again, Breakdown. Sucks to be you.  
  
He can feel Breakdown's glower follow him all the way into the ground bridge.  


 

***


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone missed my announcement, make sure you go back and skim chapter four because I accidentally uploaded the wrong version of the chapter. There's a scene now that was missing before. Enjoy!

The moment the door clicks open, Ratchet knows who has come to call. He doesn't even have to look.   
  
“I was wondering when you'd come.”   
  
Amusement flutters through a questing energy field, brushing against Ratchet's own as if in greeting before withdrawing again. “I saved your interrogation for last,” Prowl replies in a dry tone.   
  
Ratchet snorts and half-turns, giving Prowl a baleful look. “I assume you already read Sunstreaker the riot act?”   
  
Prowl tilts his helm. “Riot act?”   
  
“Human phrase. You'll learn it soon enough.” Ratchet returns back to his work, which is trying to make sense of the collection of spare parts in front of him. Hopefully, he'll be able to cobble a suitable protoform out of it. “The internet will be of use to you. Ask Raf how best to access it. He understands this blasted human tech.”   
  
“Raf?”   
  
Ratchet picks up a mangled arm, examining the joint ends. Too scrapped for reconnecting. He tosses the appendage into the scrap pile. “One of the three children Optimus has tasked us with protecting. I am certain you will meet them soon enough.”   
  
The door clicks shut as Prowl steps fully into the medbay. “Yes, Arcee did make mention of some human allies. There was also talk of a human named Fowler.”   
  
Ratchet huffs a ventilation. “You and him should get along. He's our liaison with this country's government.”   
  
He examines a pair of optics, in good condition, but fitted with red lenses. Hmm. Those will have to be replaced. Ratchet sets the optics aside, into the refit column. This is not as easy as Sunstreaker thinks it is, frag it.   
  
Prowl makes a noncommittal noise with his vocalizer. “There was also mention made of a new arrival, through Sunstreaker was unsurprisingly silent on the matter.”   
  
Ratchet's search pauses as he lays his hands flat on the table, feeling a bright surge of energy from within him, a combination of the extra charge and a small tremor of concern. “If you're asking whether or not I am fostering, than the answer is yes.”   
  
“I assume you've already considered the risks?”   
  
Ratchet turns his helm, meeting Prowl's perfectly bland stare. The tactician can pull off blank-faced better than anyone Ratchet knows. “It's too late to terminate.”   
  
“That is not what I was implying.” Some of the rigidity in Prowl's stance eases away, his doorwings flicking and then relaxing by degrees. “Your timing, as always, is poor.”   
  
Ratchet snorts, fingers rapping on the tabletop. “You think I don't know that.” He huffs a ventilation and returns his attention to the half-mangled frames arrayed in front of him. “I presume you were filled in on Knock Out's presence.”   
  
“Jazz made mention. Perceptor clarified.” Prowl eases out a soft ventilation. “For what it's worth, I am sorry for your loss, Ratchet. We should have done more.”   
  
“You've done enough, keeping my secret as you have. Primus knows your processor crashed enough because of us.” Ratchet picks up an arm, mostly intact and even in decent shape, save for a need of repaint.   
  
“Even so.” Prowl's pedesteps are barely audible as he starts a low, measuring course around the limited confines of the medbay. Ratchet can practically feel the twitches in the tactician's field at the insufficient quantities of his supplies. “What are we doing about Prime?”   
  
“Jazz is on the Nemesis, against my better judgment,” Ratchet replies, unable to conceal his frown of disapproval. “We've discussed seeking out Optimus' memory back ups but we don't have the knowledge necessary to plan anything further.”   
  
Prowl makes a noncommittal noise. “If only we could access Vector Sigma. Perhaps then we could better understand what has afflicted Prime.” He pauses, picking up one of Ratchet's half-finished projects. “Ratchet, I don't believe obtaining Prime's back ups are the answer.”   
  
“I have the same suspicions.” Ratchet gives up work on the frames and turns, leaning back against the counter. He attempts to cross his arms, but putting that much pressure on his chestplates is unpleasant. “Aside from the fact Prime's memory back ups won't cover his time on Earth, they also won't return the Matrix to its original state.”   
  
“Then we are back where we were, scrabbling for answers to an impossible riddle.” Prowl puts down the device, doorwings pressing flat against his back. “Perceptor mentioned researching at the Archives, though it would require a trip to Cybertron, through a space bridge we do not have.”   
  
“And hordes of Terror-cons as well,” Ratchet grumbles, his ventilations hitching as the energies within him lash out, jostling for space in his limited chamber.   
  
Frag it. He's going to need another overload soon. This is becoming embarrassing and exhausting.   
  
“Ratchet?”   
  
He waves off Prowl's concern. “I'm fine. So to speak.” Ratchet shifts his attention to a private comm briefly. --Sunstreaker.--  
  
\--You need it?--   
  
Embarrassment threatens to heat Ratchet's faceplate but he fights it down. He's too old to be ashamed of himself. Isn't he?  
  
\--Nevermind,-- Sunstreaker hastily corrects. --I can tell you do. Be there in a klik.--   
  
Of course he can. Lust and pain, heavily mixed, course through their new bond. Ratchet hasn't managed to learn how to block out the stronger emotions but he hopes to gain that skill in time. It can't be any harder than learning how to rewire a sensory net.   
  
Ratchet drags a palm down his face and looks at an ever-patient Prowl. “We're going to have to finish this conversation later.”   
  
“Understood.” Prowl nods and adjusts his route back toward the door. “I will also send First Aid by later. He has missed his mentor.”   
  
The door swings open before Prowl can touch the panel, Sunstreaker striding inside but looking startled at the sight of the tactician. Sunny's optics immediately cycle down, his plating lifted in a threat display. That reaction, Ratchet sighs, is not unexpected either.   
  
“Good luck,” Prowl says, wisely sliding past Sunstreaker and hastily exiting. In a fight between the two, Ratchet's certain Prowl will emerge victorious. But he doesn't feel like cleaning up the aftermath. Not in his current state.   
  
“Politeness is a common courtesy,” Ratchet says as the door slides shut behind Sunstreaker, the frontliner's plating starting to smooth down now that they are alone.   
  
Sunstreaker rolls his optics, crowding Ratchet against the table without any preamble. “You summoned?”  
  
Ratchet's hands seem magnetically attracted to Sunstreaker's hip plating, his fingers sliding across expertly polished armor, static already spilling from himself. “I did,” Ratchet replies.   
  
To the Pit with trying to civilize Sunstreaker. It's a pointless endeavor anyway.   
  
“Now how about that overload?” Ratchet adds, pulling Sunstreaker toward him, feeling the subtle pings of armor impacting armor as they collided.   
  


o0o0o

  
  
Knock Out steps back and scrutinizes his work. For all intents and purposes, Ricochet is as good as new, if one doesn't count the disparity between new, unpainted plating and the scratched, splotched remnants of whatever had served as his paint before. He's even dug a spare visor out of the medbay's supplies, allowing Ricochet his pick of several styles.   
  
The new mech had chosen a visor with a violet hue as opposed to a crimson one, a color choice still Decepticon in nature at least.   
  
Knock Out has also toned up the sigils on the mech's thigh plating along with fixing all of the major dents and torn lines and other little fiddly bits. The rest Ricochet's self-repair can handle, especially now that he's got a good cube of mid-grade in him. That sludgy, almost-mauve mixture that Knock Out had drained from Ricochet's tanks isn't suited to power an insentient space shuttle much less a Cybertronian warrior.   
  
All in all, Ricochet is good to go. Which Knock Out is quite happy for because he has proven even more annoying than Airachnid.  
  
“Careful there, Doc,” Ricochet drawls, leaning back on the berth with the sort of casual grace that takes most mechs vorns to perfect. “You're staring a bit too hard at shiny old me.”   
  
Knock Out arches an orbital ridge and turns, dropping his scanner on a cart behind him. “Shiny is pushing it.”   
  
Ricochet laughs, loud and full, rather grating actually. “Mmm, you make for a good point.” He lifts an arm, peering at a rectangular panel of grey plating. “Got some paint to spare? And make it flashy.” He drawls out the last word, accompanying it with a flicker of his visor.   
  
Knock Out resists the urge to ex-vent audibly. He doesn't need to let Ricochet realize just how irritating he is being. “We have black. Lots of black,” he replies flatly, plating clamping down tightly to his frame.   
  
“Now that's boring.” Ricochet waves a hand through the air, twitching on the berth. “Am I fresh and free to go?”   
  
“Something like that.” Dear, Primus. The sooner Knock Out can get the mech out of his medbay, the sooner he can have some peace and intelligent quiet.   
  
“Wait a klik.” Ricochet launches himself off the berth, drawing to his full height which neatly matches Knock Out's own. He holds his arms out in front of him, plating shifting around as though in test mode. “Where're my weapons?”   
  
Knock Out smirks. “You'll have to ask Soundwave about those.”   
  
If it were possible for a Cybertonian to blanch, Ricochet has. There's a distinctly uneasy look to the mech's faceplate. It's the first smart reaction Knock Out's seen from the so-called Decepticon. Soundwave's one creepy fragger.   
  
A shiver wreaks Knock Out's systems. He still remembers the unwelcome sensation of Soundwave's cables wrapping around him, the mech slithering through his private systems with ridiculous ease, all in the name of data retrieval.   
  
Three trips to the washracks later and Knock Out still has ghost twinges through his sensor net.   
  
“Do I... have to?” Ricochet asks, for the first time displaying some hesitation.   
  
Knock Out smothers a derisive laugh. “Your choice.”   
  
Ricochet shudders visibly and takes a long, sliding step closer to Knock Out. “I gotta better idea. How about you give me a tour of this unique piece of Decepticon machinery?”  
  
Knock Out eases away from Ricochet, putting a respectful distance between them and resisting the urge to enunciate himself with his surgical saw. “I'll take you where you're supposed to go,” he says. “That's tour enough.”   
  
“Suit yourself.” Ricochet drags his hands down his frame, as though making certain he's been stripped of all weapons, and then gestures Knock Out ahead of him. “After you.”   
  
A growl of irritation rumbles in Knock Out's engine but he turns and strides out of his medbay. Honestly. He has better things to do than take Ricochet around, feeling the full force of the Decepticon's visor on his plating. Also, he can't stand to look at the garish, half-painted mech. Ugh.   
  
“Down that hall is the lift to the storage decks,” Knock Out directs in a cheerless tone, only aware of Ricochet following him due to the presence on his scanners. Otherwise, the mech doesn't make a sound. Not a single pedestep. He must have some kind of noise dampener attached to his frame. “There are three of them and they are off limits to anyone without the proper clearance.”   
  
“And that would be?”   
  
“Not you,” Knock Out replies curtly. He turns a sharp corner and this time, gestures to his opposite side where another hallway, darker than the others, slopes sharply down. “Down that corridor is where we keep the labs. Word to the wise, I wouldn't suggest a visit.”   
  
Ricochet laughs, a staticky noise. “What if I got a little mad scientist in me?”   
  
Such a comment doesn't deserve a response so Knock Out says nothing. He heads to the main lift on the floor and punches the button. The deck above contains the soldier's barracks, but that's not where Knock Out is taking Ricochet. He has his orders after all.   
  
“What about that door?”   
  
Knock Out turns, following the line of Ricochet's point to an alcove currently being guarded by two Vehicons. A recent addition after Arcee's untimely visit to the Nemesis. “Another room. Also off-limits.”   
  
The lift dings, announcing it's arrival, and Knock Out moves to step into it. Ricochet, however, doesn't budge.   
  
“But what kind of room?” he asks, leaning toward the guarded door as if intending to dart over there and barge his way inside.   
  
Knock Out reaches out, hooking a hand around Ricochet's arm and dragging the mech away. “None of your business,” he snaps, pushing Ricochet ahead of him.   
  
Primus, he's more irritating than Bluestreak on a chatty orn!  
  
A surprisingly deft twist of motion and Ricochet breaks free of Knock Out's hold, but he's wise enough not to take off. The door to the lift closes behind them and Knock Out jams the button for the command deck.   
  
“Cool, mech. Just curious.” Ricochet flashes a smile, visor glimmering with amusement. “Never been on a warship before. Since Cybertron went dark, been on one cramped shuttle to the next.”   
  
Knock Out folds his arms, concentrating solely on the power lines running through the lift. Something about this mech makes him plain uneasy. “Who's unit were you in?”   
  
“Turmoil's. Until he skipped off planet and left half of us behind.” Ricochet's smile widens, displaying his denta. “Tried to follow Lord Megatron through the space bridge. Something went shifty. Got spat out on the aft end of some backwater galaxy. Was fun. Should try it sometime.”  
  
“I'll pass.”   
  
The lift dings, the doors sliding open, and Knock Out steps out first, once again sensing more than seeing Ricochet follow him.   
  
Knock Out heads straight for the command center, wanting to be free of Ricochet as soon as possible.   
  
The new mech forces air through an outtake in a harsh whistle. “Think I'm gonna like it here,” he comments, grinning at a couple of passing Vehicons. “See any action?”   
  
“There are Autobots on this planet,” Knock Out concedes. “Including the Prime.” Though Prime isn't really a factor anymore. Not that the newbie needs to know that. Less chance of him accidentally breaking Lord Megatron's carefully crafted illusion.   
  
The doors to the bridge open as Knock Out approaches, the noise of consoles beeping and Vehicons murmuring status updates floating to his audials. Lord Megatron is standing at the helm, a master overseeing his subjects, optics focused on the main screen. He turns at Knock Out's entrance, gaze sifting past the medic to the unknown entity following along behind.   
  
“Ah, Ricochet was it?” Megatron semi-greets, his tone noticeably wary but his expression giving away nothing.   
  
“You've got it.” Ricochet doesn't bother to salute.   
  
Obviously, he's never been on the receiving end of Megatron's idea of discipline for insubordination. Well, he'll learn soon enough.   
  
Knock Out wisely steps out of the line of fire.   
  
Megatron's optics cycle down to narrow slits of scarlet. “Tell me again how you came to be a prisoner of the Autobots,” he says, moving toward Ricochet with a slow, measured stride.   
  
Ricochet's visor, Knock Out notices, tracks every motion that Megatron makes. “Got jumped when I stopped for recharge on this dusty, little moon.”  
  
“And up until then?”   
  
“Searching for energon. And you, of course, most vaunted leader.”   
  
Megatron twitches. Knock Out winces. And is not very surprised when the taloned servo whips out, the clawed back slamming against Ricochet's faceplate and cracking his visor.   
  
Ricochet helm lurches to the side, the sharp slap of metal on metal ringing in the air. The soldier stumbles but manages to keep his pedes beneath him, engine revving as his energy field spikes with surprise.   
  
Knock Out ex-vents softly. He just fixed that visor, frag it.   
  
Energon dribbles from his lower lipplate but instead of wiping it away, Ricochet's glossa takes care of the drip.   
  
“It seems your orns spent in solitude have made you forget proper conduct when around your leader, Ricochet,” Megatron says without breaking stride. “I wonder what else it is you might have forgotten. Soundwave!”   
  
Here, Ricochet flinches, visor dimming behind the visible crack. “Lord Megatron, I--”  
  
He cuts off as Megatron holds up another taloned servo. “Our new recruit could use a few lessons. Instruct him.”   
  
Knock Out takes another step back. And then a third for good measure, watching as Soundwave inclines his helm. His cables whip out, grabbing Ricochet before the soldier can even think of fleeing.   
  
Knock Out's internals lurch and he whirls on a heel. He has no interest in staying. Experiencing Soundwave's special form of interrogation is bad enough. He doesn't want to witness it either, even if Ricochet is as annoying as Starscream.   
  
“Knock Out.”   
  
He pauses, turning back toward Lord Megatron and making a point not to even so much as glance Ricochet's direction. “Yes, Lord Megatron?”   
  
“Our special guest will be needing his fuel shortly. Do not forget.”   
  
Knock Out bites back several sarcastic remarks that would also get him a talon to the faceplate and simply inclined his helm. “I will attend to that immediately,” he responds with a little bow and quickly takes his leave.   
  
Sometimes, a part of him agrees with Starscream's assessment. There's something not quite right in Lord Megatron's processor. He seems to be the only one who can handle the continued exposure to dark energon without any repercussions, but Knock Out is not so certain. Vorn by vorn, Megatron's been losing it.   
  
_The Autobots are going to lose_ , he reminds himself.   
  
And Knock Out will take an insanely ambitious leader over a soft-sparked, hypocritical Prime any day.   
  


o0o0o

  
  
“Sideswipe.”   
  
“Hmm?”   
  
“Let me up.”   
  
“No.”   
  
The weight on First Aid's frame snuggles closer, near-smothering him. Sideswipe's arms are wrapped firmly around his midsection, Sideswipe's faceplate pressed into First Aid's neck components. He can feel Sideswipe's ex-vents tickling his sensors, not enough to make him laugh or arouse him, but just enough to be tangible.   
  
Aid's lips twitch. “We'll need to refuel eventually,” he says, one hand resting on Sideswipe's back, fingers dragging down over unfamiliar, smooth armor.   
  
Sideswipe's silence is all too telling. Sometimes, despite being bonded, First Aid feels as though he doesn't understand his mate at all. Other times, he can almost guess what Sideswipe is thinking. This instance? It's a bit of both.   
  
“Sides, talk to me.”   
  
More silence. He can feel the thrumming of Sidewipe's spark, off-balance which is usually indicative of his mate's distress. Sideswipe's energy field is also withdrawn, when he would usually twine it eagerly around First Aid's.   
  
It can't be just the vorns long separation that has him so reserved. There must be something else. And First Aid guesses that it has something to do with a certain mech who is bright gold.   
  
“I can feel it, you know,” First Aid continues, both hands now resting on Sideswipe's dorsal plating, feeling the heat of his mate's frame. “Your spark's erratic.”   
  
Finally, Sideswipe stirs.   
  
“Been recharging alone,” he mutters, though it's a half-afted response at best.   
  
It's a start.   
  
Aid hums thoughtfully. “Sunstreaker?”   
  
Sideswipe's frame shakes with a laugh, but it lacks humor. “Vorns of being separated and they're still at each other's intakes and I'm still picking up the pieces. When I'm not making myself scarce that is.” His tone is not quite bitter, but definitely tired.   
  
Ah. Not just Sunstreaker then but also the querulous relationship he has with Ratchet. Then again, there are few mechs who don't have a somewhat antagonizing relationship with Ratchet.   
  
“We should just go,” Sideswipe says after a moment passes, his vocals almost too soft for First Aid's audials to pick up. “Put wheels to the road and drive somewhere the war doesn't exist.”   
  
First Aid's hand shifts up, stroking over the back of Sideswipe's helm. “You don't mean that.”   
  
He expects another dark laugh. For Sideswipe to agree that yes, he'd been joking even though parts of him meant it.   
  
What First Aid gets is more of that incriminating silence. Primus, what has happened in the past vorns? What has he missed?   
  
“Sideswipe.”   
  
“Maybe I do,” his mate says, and finally lifts his helm, his optics dim with stress and dismay. “I'm fragging tired, Aid. Tired of one inhospitable planet after the other. Stale energon and empty galaxies. Cramped quarters and sitting by Sunny as Percy puts him together again because he misses Ratchet and doesn't know how else to say it except to keep getting himself scrapped.”   
  
Sideswipe pulls himself up onto his elbows, one hand flitting over to rub down his faceplate with a heavy ex-vent. “I'm tired of trying not to break and knowing it's inevitable. I just want to be home again.”   
  
First Aid let Sideswipe's confession wash over him, unable to help the pulse of concordance from his spark.   
  
He shutters his optics, venting carefully. He has no words to soothe because the truth remains bitter. He can't and won't offer Sideswipe false optimism.   
  
They've lost everything except for each other. Sideswipe still has his brother. First Aid believes Blades is out there somewhere. He supposes they should consider themselves lucky for being able to hold on to even a small portion of their family.   
  
“We can't abandon the Autobots,” Aid finally says, onlining his optics once more. “Or your brother. But I won't let Prime separate us again.”   
  
A soft smile curls Sideswipe's lipplate. “Won't? Are you going to ignore a direct order?”   
  
First Aid feels a flush heat his faceplate. “I've done it before you know,” he huffs, rolling his optics. Just because he usually listens to their commanding officers and Sideswipe is known for testing the boundaries only to hop right over them....  
  
“I'll believe that when I see it,” Sideswipe retorts and he shifts his weight to one arm, the other rising free and tickling down First Aid's side armor, where his plating has wider gaps for greater flexibility. “Might be pretty hot actually.”   
  
Trust Sideswipe to flipflop from angst to lust in the span of a few minutes time. And everymech thinks that Sunstreaker is the emotionally unstable one.   
  
Still, lust is easier handled than sadness and First Aid isn't exactly disinclined. It's been vorns since he's seen his mate after all. His spark craves to reconnect.   
  
“I suppose you're going to give me the opportunity to be non-compliant sometime soon then?” First Aid asks, his energy field flexing outward, reaching for Sideswipe's and delighted when his bond responded.   
  
“Nah. I think Sunny's got that front covered for a while yet.” Sideswipe lowers his helm, nuzzling against the windshield on First Aid's chestplate. “But I could use a few reminders, ya know, for old times sake.”   
  
“I am supposed to be on duty in a few minutes.”   
  
Sideswipe's lips nibble at the faux windshield wipers. “I can be quick.”   
  
First Aid sighs, but it's hardly one of disappointment. He's missed this, missed his mate.   
  
And it won't be the first time Sideswipe's helped him be late for a shift. He's certain it won't be the last.   
  


0o0o0

  
  
It doesn't make any sense.   
  
Frustration and confusion nag at the edge of Orion's concentration and his processor is already divided between two tasks. The Iacon database is troublesome enough. But trying to hack into the encrypted files of the Nemesis mainframe is even worse.   
  
He must have answers.   
  
He wants to believe Megatron but there are too many inconsistencies, too many facts that just don't add up.   
  
His thoughts keep cycling back to that moment, that look of devastation in the Autobots' optics when he ignored them. They had called him Prime.   
  
He is no Prime.   
  
Even more confusing is Ratchet. Orion remembers him to be a surgeon and a decent scientist. True, he had a bit of a temper, but he ran a free clinic in the slums of Uraya for Primus' sake. Now he's become leader of the Autobots? Granted, Megatron had risen from a gladiator to leader of the Decepticons, but the idea of a medic becoming a dictator seems so very far-fetched.   
  
Megatron wouldn't lie.   
  
And yet, there is so much he won't let Orion see. There are questions he won't answer or distracts Orion away from seeking in the first place.   
  
Those happy orns of planning and plotting and chatting are gone. Orion's left a mech he doesn't recognize, speaking words that make no sense, and the devastating knowledge that Cybertron is gone.   
  
Would that he had never recovered from this, that he had never returned to Orion Pax. He honestly doesn't know what to think.   
  
His console beeps.   
  
Orion frowns, turning away from his third attempt to hack the Nemesis mainframe. A line of code on the main screen flashes bright purple at him. Ah, another piece of the Iacon Database has been decoded. They are coordinates yet again. For this planet.   
  
Why is so much Cybertronian tech hidden here? First the energon and now these relics. It doesn't make any sense.   
  
Orion ex-vents softly and starts to activate his comm, intending to let Soundwave know of his most recent success.   
  
Behind him, the door slides open. Orion whirls to find Megatron striding inside, almost as if he had known.   
  
“Orion,” Megatron greets with a pointed glance around the tiny cubicle. “How is your work progressing?”   
  
He looks at Megatron, really looks at him, searching for any clue, any sign of the noble-sparked Megatronus he had known before. But all he can see is the poisonous glow of that dark energon.   
  
“I have decoded another portion,” Orion answers, returning back to the screen, if only to cease scrutinizing Megatron for the past. “It is another set of coordinates.”   
  
In the reflection of the monitor, he can see Megatron's face split into a sharp grin. “Excellent,” he says, one hand clasping Orion on the shoulder, thumb brushing the newly applied brand. “When Knock Out and Breakdown are done with their little errand, I'll retrieve Iacon's gift.”   
  
“Errand?”   
  
Megatron's optics drop from the screen to Orion's shoulder, where his thumb continues to trace the sigil. “The Autobots destroyed our space bridge. We are currently retrieving the necessary machinery to complete another.”   
  
Orion whirls, excitement making his spark skip a pulse. “We can return to Cybertron?” It's more than he can hope for. Megatron claims it is dead, but Orion feels he must see it for himself. He has to see the devastation with his own optics.   
  
“Eventually,” Megatron replies and he tilts his helm. “We must first acquire the necessary energon to revitalize our planet as well as recover the lost Allspark.”   
  
Disappointed, Orion returns to his research. “I see.”   
  
Megatron ex-vents softly, the sound of a weary leader with the weight of the world on his spiky shoulders. “It is an unfortunate necessity to have to wait, I know. Cybertron is and will always be our home.”   
  
Orion ceases typing, his fingers resting on the touch-type keys. “What is it, then, that the Autobots are seeking, if not to restore Cybertron as well?”   
  
“They protect the very system that led to this war in the first place,” Megatron says, enunciating his explanation with a grand gesture. “They do not wish to lose their wealth and indolence.”   
  
Orion's helm dips. That doesn't at all sound like the Ratchet he remembers. Then again, this Megatron doesn't sound like the Megatronus he knows either.   
  
“Why do you ask?” Megatron continues, his arms lowering slowly. “All the data we have on the Autobot menace is available in the Nemesis archives.”   
  
Propaganda. It all reads as propaganda. Orion's seen it, browsed through it, committed it to processor, but like everything else, it doesn't make sense. Lord Megatron this and the glorious Decepticons that and yet, somehow, both factions have managed to nearly obliterate Cybertron. He's failing to see where either of them are in the right.  
  
“The information is incomplete,” Orion starts, hedging because he's seen Megatron's temper, even when the mech thinks he's not looking. He half-turns. “Or encrypted so that I cannot access it.”   
  
Megatron's helm levels. “I'm sure Knock Out has informed you of our problem with Autobot spies. It's an unfortunate necessity.”   
  
“Yes, but...” Orion gathers himself and asks. He won't know if he doesn't push the boundaries of what Megatron is willing to tell him. “All records indicate that your second in command is Starscream.” Whom Orion does, actually, remember. He had never been fond of the Seeker. “Yet I've seen him nowhere aboard the ship.”   
  
Something flickers in Megatron's energy field, but it is there and gone again before Orion can identify it. “Sadly, Commander Starscream was offlined by an Autobot traitor. He will be sorely missed.” His tone lacks any and all sincerity.  
  
“That is unfortunate.”   
  
“Indeed.” Megatron makes a thoughtful noise and then looks at Orion once more. “You have been working for almost two shifts, Orion. It may be time for a break.” The invitation in his tone is unmistakable.   
  
For the first time since onlining to confusion and chaos, Orion finds himself reluctant.   
  
His plating - _too heavy, far too heavy, he still isn't used to this armor_ \- clamps tightly to his frame and he turns back toward the monitor. “Perhaps later. I am close to another breakthrough. This piece of the Iacon code is unraveling a bit easier.”   
  
“You are diligent, Orion.” Megatron clasps him on the shoulder, taloned servo lingering longer than a mere professional interest. “My Decepticons could learn from you.”   
  
His talon slides away with an enticing burr of metal on metal before Megatron turns on a pede and heads for the door. “Keep up the good work. I trust that you will continue to do your fellows proud.”   
  
The door slides shut behind Megatron.   
  
Orion's helm lowers, his digits pausing entirely on the keys while the two decryption programs continue to run.   
  
But which, he wonders, are his fellows truly?   
  


***


	6. Chapter 6

“Frag it!” Sideswipe snarls, fingers jamming down on the tiny buttons, curving his frame to the left in an effort to make his on-screen avatar also turn to the left.  
  
Bluestreak starts laughing like a mad mech, his optics flashing humor. “Not gonna help you,” he taunts in a sing-song as his on-screen avatar shoots ahead of Sideswipe and clears the finish line with seconds to spare. “Victory is mine.”  
  
Sideswipe tosses the controller into the air, rolling his optics. “This game is rigged,” he mutters, thrusting himself to his pedes, unable to ignore the waves of smugness radiating through Bluestreak's energy field.  
  
“You're just going to have to get used to losing,” Bluestreak retorts, snatching the controller out of mid-air before it can hit the ground and shatter into pieces. Like the last one. “Happens sometimes. We can't all be the best. You can't beat me in sharpshooting either. Or Circuit-su. Or—”  
  
“All right. All right. I get it!” Sideswipe waves off the gunner, trying to pin down his annoyance. It's really hard to stay mad at Bluestreak. “I still say this human tech is scrap. Give me an old-fashioned gladiator match or Lobbing any orn of the diun!”  
  
Several long and loud beeping noises cut off Bluestreak before he can get another retort out.  
  
“Quiet. Both of you,” Prowl says, his voice floating over to them from where he stands in front of the monitors.  
  
Bluestreak makes a face at Sideswipe, better suited to younglings really and Sideswipe rolls his optics. Once he gets the hang of these controls, Bluestreak will be eating his words. Sideswipe just needs a little practice is all.  
  
“Ratchet!”  
  
Sideswipe's helm whips toward the main monitor as a loud bellow calls for his brother's mate. Mech, that's a bellow Ratchet could be envious of.  
  
“Ratchet is not in command at the moment, Agent Fowler,” Prowl replies as Sideswipe steps around the edge of the platform, getting a better view of the monitor. “I am quite certain that this information has already been relayed to you.”  
  
On screen, Fowler's eyes narrow. “You're not the mech I spoke to before. What in God's name is going on out there?”  
  
\--Uh, Sunny? Think you can let Ratchet crawl out from under you for a klik?-- Sideswipe asks across a private comm, though he admits his pinging is very under-stated and hesitant.  
  
Energy-starving Ratchet plus energy-battery Sunstreaker makes for a more volatile combination than usual. Not even Sideswipe wishes to get between them. He remembers, quite vividly, making that mistake vorns and vorns ago when they fostered Knock Out.  
  
“I am Prowl, second-in-command to Prime and current leader of the Autobots. The mech you spoke to before, Jazz, is currently away on assignment. What can I do for you?”  
  
Sideswipe shakes his helm, taking up a seat on a crate to watch the explosions. He's got to hand it to Prowl. The tactician sure knows how to keep a cool processor.  
  
Unlike the human. Who looks like he's about to blow a fuse or a circuit or whatever it is that these squishy things run on.  
  
An organic growl comes through the speakers. “My superiors aren't going to like this, Prowl. I'm being kept in the dark about too much. How many of you are there now?”  
  
\--Sunny?--  
  
Sideswipe winces as nothing short of snarl and a backhand comes across the private comm strong enough that he outwardly backpedals a pace. Okay then. Do not stir the resting Hatchet. Gotcha. Prowl's on his own.  
  
“I apologize, Agent Fowler. I will update you on our current status as soon as possible. However, I am under the impression that your call regards a matter of some urgency?”  
  
“With Cons, it's always urgent,” the human liaison mutters before glaring hotly through the screen. “And they're busting into the same military research lab they hit last time.”  
  
Sideswipe straightens, feeling his battle protocols rise to the fore. Action? He can get down with that.  
  
“What are they after?” Prowl asks and Sideswipe knows that all the little cogs are already turning for the tactician. No doubt he's plotted up a team and prepped a contact.  
  
“I don't even pretend to understand that scientific gobbledygook. It's a power source. That's what I know.” Fowler's eyes narrow. “And the fact that you can't let the Decepticons get their claws on it.”  
  
Prowl inclines his helm. “Understood. We will take care of it, Agent Fowler.”  
  
“You had better. Fowler, out.” The screen blanks out, Fowler's face replaced by a map of the United States, which is quickly zooming in to a specific location. No doubt coordinates that Fowler had sent them.  
  
Sideswipe scuffs a pede against the ground. “That squishy's an aft.”  
  
Prowl shakes his helm. “His anger is justified. He has superiors to report to, and when we don't update him, he is caught flat-footed and appears the fool. I would be angry, too.”  
  
Sideswipe grinds his gears and folds his arms. “Could be grateful. I don't see any other mechs around here volunteering to help rid them of their Decepticon infestation.”  
  
“And in the process, we are causing damage to their world,” Prowl corrects, pausing to half-turn, giving Sideswipe a long look with a single optic. “This war isn't theirs. I cannot blame their irritation.”  
  
Trust Prowl to be so fragged logical.  
  
Sideswipe ruffles his plating. “Are we going after those 'Cons or what?”  
  
The corner of Prowl's mouthplate lifts up in his trademark, amused smirk. “I am assembling the team now. Speaking of which, Sun--”  
  
“Naw,” Sideswipe drawls with the lazy insubordination that he knows Prowl has always loathed. “Our ray of merry sunshine is circuits deep in our surly medic and I don't know about you, but I like my plating attached.”  
  
“One could hardly tell with the way you throw yourself at any Decepticon,” Prowl remarks dryly. “Nevertheless, I concede your point.”  
  
“Does that mean I get to go?” Bluestreak asks with an excited chirp, leaning around the console to give Prowl hopeful optics. “Jazz's kept me cooped up here like the whole time. Well, except when he let me go after the thing in the tunnels. I hate tunnels.”  
  
Sideswipe smothers a laugh. “Gee. I wonder why Jazz kept you here.” He waggles his optical ridges for good emphasis.  
  
Bluestreak rolls his optics, flicking a doorwing in a manner Sideswipe knows good and well is an insult. Cheeky brat.  
  
“I need you to pick up the children, Bluestreak,” Prowl says, their banter going completely over his helm. “I do not know which Decepticons will be present and I'd rather not test your reaction to Ricochet.”  
  
Bluestreak frowns, doorwings suddenly hiked high and rigid behind him. “He's been my mate longer than you've been with Mirage. I know what he's like when he's mimicking.”  
  
“No, you don't.” There's something in Prowl's tones that make Sideswipe's audials open wider, as though he's about to hear something especially interesting. “You've seen him when he leaves and when he returns. You've not seen him in action. And I plan to keep it that way.”  
  
Bluestreak huffs, optics cycling down and dear Primus, Sideswipe knows that look. He takes another step back. Sunstreaker rips off plating when he's annoyed. Bluestreak goes for the intakes, but it's always when you least expect it. He's a vindictive mech, though you wouldn't guess it from his cheerful exterior.  
  
And that look? Right there? Bodes well for no one. Bluestreak's as stubborn as they come and that look is the one he gets right before Prowl makes him take someone down from a distance. That cold, calculating place he goes when he's got to assassinate.  
  
Sideswipe shudders.  
  
He's got no problem tearing a mech apart faceplate to faceplate. But it takes an especially cold spark to do it from a distance.  
  
Prowl turns. Their optics meet. Two pairs of Praxian doorwings become utterly still.  
  
And here Sideswipe is without any backup. It's so sad when a father and son, to use human terms, argue.  
  
“What are the Cons after this time?” Bulkhead demands as he comes barreling into the room with a thunderous pace that nearly makes Sideswipe leap into the air.  
  
He actually has to dial down his combat subroutines. Primus! When Bluestreak and Prowl disagree, smart mechs know to run for the hills.  
  
Bluestreak is the first to look away, but his lipplates are pressed together in a thin, sulking line.  
  
“Fowler believes they are after a power source of some kind. Apparently, they have attempted to steal such before,” Prowl explains, turning as Bumblebee, Arcee, and Mirage also enter the ops center, the former two having returned from patrol with a screech of their tires.  
  
Prowl reaches for the ground bridge control, activating it. “Sideswipe, you, too,” he says. “Keep collateral damage to a minimum. We have the advantage of numbers.”  
  
“For now,” Sideswipe mutters, but he drops into alt-mode to join the rest of his team. He happens to enjoy his new form. It's sleek and stylish.  
  
Bulkhead slams two fists together, the sound echoing in the cavernous room. “It's about time. They're due some payback.”  
  
“Mirage has command,” Prowl adds as they head toward the bridge as one unit. “I will be watching from the monitor.”  
  
“Great,” Sideswipe hears Mirage murmur quietly. “What do I know of Earth?”  
  
Nevertheless, the spy takes the lead and the five of them drive into the ground bridge, appearing on the other side to chaos.  
  
Subtle, the Decepticons are not. Rather than take the calm and careful approach, it appears they've decided to make no effort to conceal their actions.  
  
The military complex is on fire, smoke billowing toward the clouds, the sound of sirens screeching through the air. Humans are yelling and firing their pathetic weaponry at the dozen of Vehicons in their midst. Insentient vehicles are upturned or lying in pieces.  
  
Sideswipe flashes back into root mode, rocket launcher on his right shoulder humming to life. The sound of transformation echoes around him, his teammates emerging from alt mode, blasters at the ready.  
  
The east-side of the military complex suddenly explodes outward, raining bits of debris over the battlefield. Knock Out and Breakdown emerge, the latter carrying something large and bulky.  
  
\--Take them down,-- Prowl broadcasts over a wide-range comm.  
  
Sideswipe smirks. He doesn't have to be told twice.  
  
He fires, aiming for one of the Vehicons and watching as it tumbles backward, helm over pedes, smoke rising from its chassis. Around him, the other Autobots begin to fire as well, blasters lighting up the already fire-bright night.  
  
“Drop the power source, Breakdown!” Bulkhead snarls, pounding forward across the ground, eager as always to battle his nemesis.  
  
Breakdown laughs, a grating sound.  
  
Knock Out smirks, powering up his energon prod, and by Primus, Sideswipe doesn't know if he'll get used to seeing his brother's youngling in Decepticon purple.  
  
“Finders keepers,” Knock Out purrs. “Kind of like a certain new recruit of ours.”  
  
Jet engines screech above them, a triad of Eradicons bearing down upon the Autobots, firing mercilessly. They scatter in five directions to avoid the barrage, but Bulkhead barrels forward, a battle cry spilling from his vocalizer.  
  
“Frag it,” Mirage snarls, and rolls to his pedes, sprinting across the ground for Knock Out, pulling out a pair of energon daggers.  
  
Sideswipe focuses his attention on the drones, Megatron's cannon fodder. Beside him, Bumblebee is doing the same while Arcee takes a file from Mirage's datapad.  
  
Blasterfire from behind shocks them all.  
  
Mirage goes down in a heap, flipping helm over pedes before skidding in the dirt, sparks spitting from a damaged leg.  
  
Sideswipe whirls, just in time to see a blackish blur throw itself at him. He shouts, flailing, as a frame similar to his own, barrels into him. They hit the ground, Sideswipe's helm smacking into an insentient vehicle, his vision fritzing. Inane laughter bubbles up from Sideswipe's attacker.  
  
“Lookie what I caught,” the Decepticon purrs as Sideswipe's optics reboot. “An Autobot to call my own. Think Megatron'll let me keep you?”  
  
Sideswipe growls, jerking up a knee, but the Decepticon twists to avoid it.  
  
“Now, now,” the 'Con says with another out-of-sync laugh. “Play nice, Autobot.”  
  
Sideswipe's vision clears, the fuzzy image solidifying into a purple-lit visor and a faceplate smeared with a sneer. Decepticon ID protocols come up blank. Is it...?  
  
“I don't play nice,” Sideswipe snarls and his energon blade slides from his left arm. He whips it up and out, aiming for the 'Con's side.  
  
His opponent throws himself away from Sideswipe's blade, skittering across the ground on hands and pedes, no rhyme or reason to his attack. He laughs again, like a mech who's truly lost all connections to his logic processors.  
  
“You are the fun one,” the Con drawls, glossa sliding over his lips. “Maybe funner if I cut off a limb or three? What do you say?”  
  
Sideswipe rolls to one side to face the Con, ventilations heaving, and processor still swimming from the initial impact. His gyros reel.  
  
“I say you get over here and fight like a mech and not some scuttling organic,” Sideswipe growls, planting one pede on the ground to push himself up.  
  
The Decepticon's helm dips, lipplates peeling back in amusement. “But it looks like I broke you. Guess I have to finish the job.” He launches himself at Sideswipe, mini-blasters extending from his forearms, energy shots splitting the air.  
  
Sideswipe rolls to avoid, twisting to slice his sword where the Decepticon should have landed. The blade whistles harmlessly over the Con's head as he crouches yet again, better resembling some kind of leaping creature.  
  
He laughs.  
  
Anger roils inside of Sideswipe. He's being toyed with.  
  
Behind him, the military compound gives off a strut-rattling shockwave, some kind of explosion from within. Sideswipe is thrown forward, onto his faceplate from the force of it.  
  
“Well, that's our cue.” Sideswipe's fuzzy audials pick up Knock Out's vocals above the din of roaring flames.  
  
He turns his helm, watching as a ground bridge spirals into existence near Breakdown and Knock Out.  
  
The former lumbers into the bridge, power source in servo, but not before offering the downed Bulkhead a jaunty salute. Knock Out aims a smirk at Arcee before executing a sharp whistle.  
  
“Ricochet! Let's go!”  
  
Laughter answers Knock Out's summons and Sideswipe catches sight of the aforementioned mech – that is Jazz after all – as he pelts across the battlefield to precede Knock Out back onto the Nemesis.  
  
The medic gives the fallen Autobots a cheerful wave. What kind of frag explosive was that?  
  
“We'll be sure to tell the Big O you said hello,” Knock Out says in a parting shot and turns, running into the ground bridge.  
  
Sideswipe pushes himself to his knees, gyros reeling ridiculously out of sync.  
  
“Arcee!”  
  
He looks up at Mirage's shout.  
  
The femme's pushed herself into her alt-mode and is now barreling at top speed for the Decepticon's ground bridge.  
  
\--Arcee! Stand down!-- Prowl snaps across the open comm.  
  
But it's too late. She's gone into the bridge, and it closes behind her.  
  
Sideswipe shakes his helm, letting out an exhausted ex-vent. They just got their afts handed to them. So much for the advantage of numbers.  
  


o0o0o

  
  
Orion stirs as the sound of what appears to be battle pierces his concentration. He cycles his optics and disengages his cable from the console, half-turning toward the closed door behind him. He dials up his audials.  
  
Yes. He is not very accustomed to battle, but that is definitely the unmistakable noise of blasterfire. There are also several muffled shouts.  
  
An Autobot incursion? Not that he could be of any help. He has little experience in handling weapons and his hand-to-hand skills remain abysmal, despite what lessons Megatron had given him vorns ago.  
  
Still, he feels he shouldn't ignore such noise. What if a mech needs his assistance?  
  
Orion pauses his work and opens the door, stepping into the corridor. The guards that are usually stationed at the door across the hall from him are gone. No one is immediately visible, but the sounds of blaster-fire are definitely louder and coming from the curve in the hall to his left. This can't be some kind of drill or practice session. The training rooms are two decks down.  
  
Orion ventilates quietly and starts down the hallway, more shouting floating to his audials, easier to distinguish than before. He recognizes the nearly-identical vocal tones of Megatron's soldier drones and the sound of an engine revving at high speed.  
  
Two vehicons burst out of a side hall, weapons drawn.  
  
“What's going on?” Orion asks. “Is there an attack?”  
  
One continues, the other pauses, waving a dismissing hand at Orion. “Return to your work, Orion. Lord Megatron commands it,” he says, before he continues after his companion, their weak energy fields frazzled.  
  
Orion's optics cycle down. He should obey. But he doesn't.  
  
He follows after the vehicons, to the sound of blasterfire getting closer, the noise of battle in the halls of the Nemesis. Why? Not even Optimus is quite sure. He feels there are answers here, answers he needs and no one else seems willing to give him.  
  
The shouting ends. The scent of scorched circuits and discharged plasma floats to Optimus' olfactory sensor. Something screeches against metal. An engine revs. And ahead of Optimus, the corridor flashes a brilliant blue-green.  
  
He breaks into a jog, hurries around the corner, and nearly collides with Soundwave. The hallway is littered with the fallen frames of several vehicons, but there is no sign of whomever had attacked.  
  
“Soundwave, I heard a commotion.” He moves to pass the communications mech, staring pointedly at the smoking frames in the hallway, the sight of which causes his tanks to churn.  
  
The idea of a revolution had seemed so bright and hopeful to him. The realities of acquiring it, however, leave Orion feeling as though they are hardly any better off.  
  
Soundwave, however, says nothing. He gives Orion a long, measuring look. Or at least Orion assumes so being as he can see nothing behind that inscrutable mask.  
  
“What caused this?” Orion asks, gesturing to the energon splattered across the floor.  
  
Static stretches across Soundwave's visor. “ _Return to your work_ ,” spills from Soundwave, a direct quotation of the earlier vehicon. “ _Lord Megatron's orders_.”  
  
Soundwave turns on a pede, saying nothing more.  
  
Orion frowns, staring at Soundwave's departing frame, even as more drones burst onto the scene, servant-class this time as opposed to warriors. They do not speak, not that they are capable, and start to attend to the fallen soldiers.  
  
He watches for a long moment, debating, before starting forward to help. He had not been able to help in the altercation, but he can at least do this much. He cannot be so squeamish in the face of the realities of war. And if Megatron thinks Orion so weak that he tries to keep him from so much as witnessing battle, then Orion intends to prove the Decepticon leader wrong. One step at a time.  
  


o0o0o

  
  
“Can you even tell me what purpose that futile insubordination served?” Prowl demands, his vocals sharp but constrained, refusing to be raised above an acceptable volume.  
  
Arcee's mouthplate sets in a stubborn line. “I was attempting to locate Optimus. Isn't that what we've all been doing?”  
  
Prowl's optics cycle down. “Which is the purpose of Jazz's presence on the Nemesis. Your adolescent decision to throw yourself into the spark of danger has not helped us at all. Has it?”  
  
Her helm tilts, optics dancing away from Prowl. “No.”  
  
“You had to have known it wouldn't have helped,” Sideswipe says, only to wince as Perceptor continues to weld his frame. “So what was the point?”  
  
Prowl stares at the femme, who seems to grow more stubborn by the moment.  
  
“We want Optimus back. Megatron knows that,” Arcee retorts, straightening her shoulders though First Aid's been poking at her knee joint for the past breem. “If we don't even make an attempt to look for him, won't he think something's up?”  
  
“And if I thought, for a single astrosecond, that you had been thinking so logically at the time, you would not need a reprimand,” Prowl says, and forces himself to ventilate, as he knows he must be visibly seething.  
  
Arcee's energy field snaps with rebelliousness but she turns her helm away with a sharp jerk. “It's been two weeks! Who knows what the frag Megatron's doing to him up there? We're taking too long.”  
  
“She's got a point,” Sideswipe drawls, looking up at Prowl with a shrug of his uninjured shoulder. “We don't have a clue what Megatron's doing with Prime and the longer he's with the Decepticons, the longer he's in danger.”  
  
Prowl's lipplates press together, his doorwings hiked behind him. “And if we take these uncalculated, unplanned risks and worsen matters, what then?”  
  
If any of them have an answer for him, he doesn't get to hear it. The main console beeps, signaling an incoming communication. Prowl turns toward it, unsurprised when Agent Fowler's face appears on screen, lines of stress etched into his features.  
  
“What happened out there?” Fowler demands and he's hunched forward, as though leaning on a piece of furniture, his eyes dark and furious. “Reports indicate at least a dozen wounded and now the heat's on me to provide some explanation!”  
  
Prowl twitches. The accusation is implicit and the sensation of failure trickles down his backstrut in a disquieting chill. “I apologize. I am unused to working with a foreign government. It will not happen again.”  
  
“That's not the kind of excuse my superiors want to hear,” Fowler all but snarls. “You bots better get your act together or the Pentagon will shut all of us down!”  
  
The human doesn't bother with a dismissal or a polite goodbye. He cuts off the transmission, leaving static on the line.  
  
“Why did you apologize to that human?” Mirage asks, his vocals breaking the ensuing silence and dripping with disdain.  
  
Prowl turns toward the others, and by proxy, his mate. “Maintaining a good relationship with the humans is crucial at the moment.”  
  
\--And Fowler's right,-- Bumblebee transmits to them all. --We should have focused on evacuating the base.--  
  
Mirage makes a scornful noise. “And not worry about stopping the Decepticons? If you ask me, even more of those precious humans are going to die if we let Megatron get his way.”  
  
“You wouldn't talk like that if it was an Autobot that had been killed,” Bulkhead growls, optics narrowing.  
  
“It's all moot anyway!” Arcee snaps, waving a hand sharply through the air. “The Cons got what they wanted. We didn't accomplish anything but draining our supplies for all of these repairs!”  
  
The sound of an engine cuts through the rising tension. All optics turn toward the entrance tunnel where headlights appear in the dim before Bluestreak comes into view. Prowl bites back an ex-vent of exasperation. This is a rather poor time to bring the children into their base but he can hardly send them right back out. Records indicate that the femme can be quite stubborn.  
  
And sure enough, she is the first to come into view, all but throwing herself out of the passenger seat and throwing her hands into the air. “What's going on? Was there a battle? What did I miss? Did you find Optimus? Come on, Bulk. Spill the beans.”  
  
Prowl's twitching begins anew.  
  
Rafael and Jack exit at a slower pace, closing the doors politely so that Bluestreak can emerge from his alt-mode. He does not look at Prowl, the cant of his doorwings suggesting an ongoing sulk.  
  
“Was there a battle?” Jack asks.  
  
“Any sign of Optimus?” Rafael adds, reaching up to adjust his glasses.  
  
“Unfortunately, we were not able to locate Optimus,” Perceptor answers when no one else leaps to break the silence.  
  
“But there was a battle,” Jack presses.  
  
Prowl turns back toward the main console, the tension in the command center bombarding his sensory panels. How did Optimus do this, he wonders. Balance both the organics and the stubborn, reckless members of his team? For three stellar cycles even, while under-supplied, vastly outnumbered, and cut off from Cybertron.  
  
This is why Prowl will never be Prime. It is a job he does not want and like Jazz and Ratchet, he wants nothing more than to hand complete command back to Optimus. Tactical planning is where Prowl exceeds, not in corralling personnel.  
  
“Yes, Jack, we had a run-in with the Decepticons,” Arcee says, a note of fatigue to her vocals but it seems she saves her vitriol for conversation with her fellow Autobots as it's not present in her conversation with the human.  
  
Jack makes a sound of contemplation and in the reflection of the monitor, Prowl can see the oldest human give a surveying glance around the room. “If I had to guess, it didn't go so well.”  
  
“No way!” Miko gasps. “You lost!”  
  
Bulkhead's engine rumbles, slamming his hand into his palm. “We practically handed them that power source!”  
  
“Power source? For what?” Jack frowns.  
  
Rafael looses a startled sound. “Is it the same thing they were trying to take before? When they were trying to build another space bridge?”  
  
“Yes,” Arcee answers. “Which means it's only a matter of time before Megatron starts trying to raise another army.”  
  
Disappointment settles through the command center like a heavy cloud of exhaust.  
  
“More Zombie-cons?” Miko exclaims.  
  
“Wait a minute,” Jack says, one hand on his chin. “This could be a good thing.”  
  
Sideswipe jerks to his pedes, looking down at the human with an incredulous expression that rivals Prowl's own. “How in Primus' name is this a good thing?”  
  
“Well... don't we need a space bridge?” Jack says.  
  
Prowl goes utterly still, hands freezing on the control board. _Of course_. Why hadn't he considered it before? How had he missed this? Being on this organic planet must be frying his circuits.  
  
“Yeah, but how does the Cons having one going to help us--” Bluestreak cuts off, apparently coming to the same conclusion Prowl already had. “Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting? Because if you are, you're crazier than Brainstorm.”  
  
“Who's Brainstorm?” Miko asks.  
  
“But not entirely implausible,” Perceptor says with a thoughtful hum. “You claimed it yourself, Prowl. We have the advantage of numbers.”  
  
He turns back toward the Autobots, who are now as one staring back at him with expectant looks. “Jack is right. We have great need to get to Cybertron and since we lack the equipment to create one of our own, it is logical to try and seize the Decepticons' instead.”  
  
Sideswipe scoffs. “Oh, yeah. That's easy. Let me just pull out a map and we can just trot on over to their bridge.” He throws out his arms, optics flaring. “Oh, wait. We don't know where it is.”  
  
“We will find it,” Prowl says firmly, shooting Sideswipe a warning look. There may be centuries between the last time Sideswipe was under his command, but both of the twins are very aware of the benefits of obeying him. It's always been in their better interest.  
  
If he has to remind them again, he will. Prowl could use the exercise.  
  
Sideswipe clamps his lipplates shut and folds his arms.  
  
Behind Prowl, the console beeps and he turns, optics scanning the screens. One of their automatic scanning programs have detected something, some kind of signal within the solar system and approaching fast.  
  
Autobot and Decepticon.  
  
What the frag?  
  
“How?” Bulkhead demands on the distant edge of Prowl's attention. “That's like trying to find a needle in a haystack!”  
  
“Then we'd better get started,” Arcee says, dragging herself to her pedes even though she still needs some welding on one leg.  
  
“Searching will have to wait,” Prowl says, loud enough to be heard by them all as his fingers flew across the keyboard, bringing up schematics, trajectories, trying to find buried messages in the garbled communications picked up by this near-useless Earth tech.  
  
“We have incoming.”  
  


***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I am going to sort of re-order the events of canon here. I don't think the Predacon arc will be happening, but everything leading up to that is certainly on the plate. Just not in the same order you're used to. 
> 
> As always, feedback is very welcome and appreciated.


	7. Chapter Seven

Orion stirs at the ping to his quarters, curious as to who would come to call. He sets down his energon and keys the door open, further surprised when Megatron comes strolling in, his field reading satisfaction and no small amount of desire.   
  
“I have a surprise for you,” he says with a smirk.   
  
“Is not your visit enough of one?” Orion asks, arching an orbital ridge, but he steps aside, giving the Decepticon leader free reign to enter.   
  
Megatron chuckles, briefly resting his hand on Orion's shoulder. “One must never be predictable, Orion. Come. Sit.”   
  
He perches on the edge of the berth, patting the empty space beside him. Orion detours for his energon and joins Megatron on the berth.   
  
“What is it?” Orion asks, his tone just shy of youngling eagerness.   
  
Megatron hums in his chassis and withdraws something from subspace, a small cylindrical canister sealed with a clasped lid. “The item I retrieved from the first coordinates you supplied. I thought you might like to see the fruits of your labor.”   
  
Orion sets his energon on the berth behind him. “This is what you found?”   
  
“Yes.” Megatron tips the canister into his hands. “And I invite you to open it.”   
  
Orion's hands pass over the cool metal, examining every minor imperfection. It is somewhat familiar to him, though he can't say from where. He flips the clasps and opens the lid, a puff of displaced air accompanying it. He tips the cylinder on end and something flat and disc-shaped tumbles into his hand.   
  
“It's--”  
  
“The Apex Armor,” Orion finishes for Megatron, recognizing the item in an instant. “I've read of this. It was created by Solus Prime.” He looks up at Megatron with a smile. “This is incredible, Megatron.”   
  
Something in the Decepticon leader's expression softens. “It will be of great use to our cause, yes. And it is thanks to you, Orion, that we were able to acquire it.”   
  
Heat floods Orion's faceplate. “I only decoded a database.”   
  
“You have done so much more.” Megatron takes the Apex Armor from his hands, but only to set it aside. “And together, we can accomplish anything. I have always believed that.” One of his clawed hands rests on Orion's thigh, a warm weight.   
  
“I have, too.” His hand covers Megatron's. And he wants to continue to believe it now. Megatron has changed, but Orion has as well.   
  
“I am glad to hear it.” Megatron's hand cups his faceplate, thumb stroking the curve of his jaw, the size difference, at least, still familiar. Something in his expression softens, even as it becomes unreadable. “Am I preventing you from recharge?”   
  
“No.” Orion leans his helm into the touch, warm and wanted.   
  
In this, at least, there are no lies. Megatron touches him the same. His desire is the same. And the need-filled heat of his field is the same.   
  
“You are welcome to join me in it,” Orion says and banishes all disquiet to the edge of his processor.   
  
For now, this moment, Megatron is his.   
  


0o0o0

  
  
“Do you even have a plan, Commander? This chase is getting more ridiculous by the astrosecond. We've even acquired an Autobot.”   
  
Starscream frowns, optics cycling down at the brightly lit console in front of him. “Would you prefer I had left you in that lab?”   
  
Buttons flicker. “It was merely a question,” the shuttle bites out, the energy field humming around them finally backing down to a tolerable level.   
  
“And a reasonable one at that,” Onslaught says. His vocals sour as he tosses Starscream a look, his visor gleaming an annoyed yellow. “It would have been wiser to swing around the ringed planet.”   
  
Blast Off sharply yaws to the side and Starscream grips the console to keep from being thrown from his chair. Onslaught, he notices, doesn't so much as twitch.   
  
“If I wanted your opinion, I would have asked for it,” Starscream hisses, glaring at his newest recruit. “So unless you have something useful to add, mute your vocalizer.”   
  
“I knew I should have stuck with Skywarp,” Thundercracker mutters behind Starscream. He'd taken a position at the back of the cockpit, leaning against the wall and now gripping storage mesh to keep himself from being thrown to the ground.   
  
Starscream grits his denta and swings his gaze back to the windshield, the blue and white of Earth's sky whipping by at a fast pace. “I gave you the coordinates, Blast Off. Follow them. I suspect our newly acquired Autobot will take care of our Dreadwing problem.”   
  
“Why?” Onslaught asks.   
  
Starscream's lipplates curl as he tosses the Combaticon commander a smug grin. “I have it on good authority that Dreadwing killed an Autobot or two. You know how personal they tend to take these things.”   
  
“Reinforcements incoming,” Blast Off says, his vocals reverberating around them. He also chooses that moment to curve sharply to the left, throwing his passengers around his interior once more.   
  
Onslaught straightens. “But for which side?”   
  
Starscream glances out a side porthole. Autobots don't fly and he doubts the humans would try attacking. So he's not at all surprised to recognize the familiar dark purple of an Eradicon.   
  
“Megatron may not recognize us, but I am certain he'll aim for an Autobot before anything else,” Starscream says, leaning back in his chair. “Gentlemechs, our distraction has arrived.”   
  
Thundercracker makes a noise of disbelief. “You're going to get us all offlined,” he announces before turning and ducking through the doorway, heading into the cluttered confines of the cargo bay.   
  
Starscream ignores his fellow Seeker. Thundercracker had made the choice to accompany Starscream. Why, Starscream hadn't asked but it is no secret that Thundercracker's loyalty to Megatron is significantly less than his loyalty to the Decepticon cause. A fact Skywarp had not understood which led to the current rift between them.   
  
“Better to turn gray here than in Shockwave's lab,” Onslaught comments, propping his helm on a closed fist as he stares sullenly out the large windshield.   
  
“None of us are going gray,” Starscream retorts with a scathing glance. “I, for one, have no intention to offline. I have plans.”   
  
“Plans you've neglected to elaborate upon,” Onslaught reminds him, though he doesn't look Starscream's direction. “This better be worth my time, Starscream. My debt only stretches so far.”   
  
Starscream bites back several retorts, all of them unpleasant, and settles for something only mildly offensive. “You could always bow and scrape before Megatron. He might forgive you. It's been vorns, hasn't it? Surely he's forgotten why he shipped you off to Shockwave's lab in the first place.”   
  
He can feel Onslaught's hot glare like a laser between his wings, searing on his backplate. But it hardly matters. Onslaught could have chosen to go his own way, but he'd opted to come with Starscream.   
  
Right now, Starscream has the upper hand.   
  
“You were correct, Starscream,” Blast Off says, his even tones giving no hint to his opinion on anything. “The Eradicons are firing at the Autobot. Dreadwing is still on my tail.”   
  
Starscream grits his denta. “Lose him already!”   
  
“He's smaller, faster, and more agile,” Blast Off retorts. “If I could outmaneuver him, I would do it already.”   
  
The comm crackles to life, vocals echoing through the system. “Permission to disembark, sir?” Thundercracker demands, the respectful address sounding just this side of insubordinate.   
  
“Granted,” Starscream barks and feels his processor ache. His so-called allies are more trouble then they are worth. “Get him off our tail and get back here. You fall behind, I'm leaving you there.”   
  
“Whatever you say, boss.”   
  
The comm snaps off and the console informs him that the cargo bay door has opened.   
  
“Blast Off, give me a visual.”   
  
The shuttle is silent, but one of the screens flickers, displaying the view from one of Blast Off's external visual feeds. Thundercracker has whipped around, lining himself up for a strafing run across Dreadwing's dorsal plating.   
  
It's a move Starscream has seen Thundercracker perform hundreds of times during the war. Most mechs know to run when they see him coming. Most Seekers know to clear the skies. So either Dreadwing doesn't know, or he's so focused on taking Starscream down that he doesn't care.   
  
The subsonic boom tears through the atmosphere and though Thundercracker has focused it on Dreadwing, Blast Off still mutters a curse, rocking side to side in the wake of it.   
  
“I fragging hate it when he does that,” Blast Off says, in an uncharacteristic display of ill-temper. “Could have warned me.”   
  
“Should have known it was coming,” Onslaught retorts, but the offense ripples in his energy field.   
  
Starscream ignores both of them, watching as Dreadwing's ship jerks left and right, and then loses altitude at an alarming rate. Well, alarming for Dreadwing. It's going to take him time to get out of that spin, long enough for Starscream and his team to get the frag out of sight.   
  
“Thundercracker's returning,” Blast Off announces.   
  
“Good.” Starscream leans back in his chair, wings twitching behind him. “As soon as he's back onboard, head straight for the coordinates as fast as you can. Lose our pursuers.”   
  
The shuttle trembles around them, a silent confirmation.   
  
“I hope you know what you're doing,” Onslaught mutters.   
  
Starscream's optics cycle down, staring through the viewscreen. He doesn't dignify the Combaticon commander with an answer.   
  
Onslaught had chosen to come with him, as had Thundercracker and Blast Off both. They have only themselves to blame.   
  


0o0o0

  
  
“Who is it?”   
  
“That's a frag lot of activity.”   
  
“I want answers, Prowl, and I want them now!”  
  
Demands and requests and curiosity bombards him from all angles. Prowl's doorwings flatten against his back at the onslaught of sensory input, narrowing it down to only what was most important: Fowler's inquiry and his own need for information.   
  
Three, no four groups of Cybetronians identified on the screen. One in front pinged as Decepticon, so did the single shuttle immediately after it. Third in line was an Autobot signal, itself surrounded by a cluster of Decepticon signals.   
  
The first cluster breaks away, arcing off-screen. The second shuttle slips into free-fall. Prowl can't follow them all. This equipment isn't sophisticated or powerful enough.   
  
He has to make a decision.   
  
The Autobot on screen follows the single Decepticon. The cluster of what has to be Vehicon soldiers careens after the Autobot.   
  
They are the biggest threat.   
  
The first cluster blips off the radar, either because it is beyond the scope of his equipment, or they have engaged some type of cloaking.   
  
“Prowl!”   
  
“I'm working on it,” Prowl replies, calm to the core, despite Arcee all but shouting at him. Her insubordination nearly matches Sideswipe and Sunstreaker's. This will have to be discussed later.   
  
“This is not meeting our agreement, Prowl,” Fowler says, his words seething from a secondary screen. “There's a city down there. Aka, collateral damage.”   
  
Prowl shifts his attention to a third monitor. The single Decepticon has crash-landed somewhere in the central United States and the Autobot has followed after it.   
  
“All of our forces are accounted for,” Prowl replies, fingers flying across the keys as he connects to their satellite access, attempting to get a visual.   
  
“You can't tell me that's not an Autobot wreaking havoc just outside of Omaha!” Fowler snaps, nostrils flaring. “I'm staring right at him!”   
  
And in a moment, Prowl will be as well.   
  
“Accessing satellite imagery now,” he says.   
  
“Or you could just see what I'm seeing,” Fowler retorts and one of the monitors flickers, revealing an image of two mechs facing off against each other, Vehicons landing in steady bursts around them.   
  
The smoldering wreckage of one shuttle can be seen in the background. Another shuttle is in better repair, one thruster damaged and spewing smoke.   
  
Fowler zooms in and all attention focuses on the screen.   
  
“That can't be Skyquake,” Bulkhead says, sounding confused. “Bumblebee pounded him to scrap months ago.”   
  
“Except for the fact Starscream gave him a new lease on half-life,” Arcee retorts with a roll of her optics. She gestures to the screen. “Doesn't tell us who the dance partner is.”   
  
Prowl ex-vents, feeling his optical ridges tick. Satellite imagery finally comes through, clearer than Fowler's secondhand, and Prowl zooms in on the Autobot, not recognizing the mech on sight.   
  
“Wheeljack!” Bulkhead exclaims with a laugh. “Jackie's back!”   
  
Primus. Wheeljack. As if Prowl needed anymore insubordinate mechs.   
  
“He's probably going to need some help,” Sideswipe says, and it isn't out of sheer kindness. Lust for battle is thick in his energy field. “So how about a ground bridge, Prowl?”   
  
“I said it once and I'll say it again,” Fowler adds from the screen. “No collateral damage. I don't want to hear of any innocents getting caught in the crossfire.”   
  
Prowl cuts his optics toward the human representative. “We will engage the Decepticon as quickly as possible. You have my word.”   
  
“Better do it fast,” Fowler says, and the image from his camera suddenly jerks. “Whoa! What in Sam Hill--”   
  
Fowler cuts out, the image filled with static.   
  
Prowl's fingers fly over the console, queuing up the coordinates as his processor forms a battle crew. “Agent Fowler? Can you hear me?”   
  
Bulkhead pounds his fists together, energy field whirling with eagerness. “Come on. We're missing all the action!”   
  
“Agent Fowler?”   
  
Nothing.   
  
The ground bridge swirls to life. Prowl keeps his optics locked on the screen, satellite giving him view of Wheeljack and the Seeker-build clashing, Vehicons adding firepower to the mix. Fowler's jet is caught in the crossfire.   
  
“Bulkhead. Arcee. Sideswipe. Bumblebee. Go.”   
  
“About time!” Bulkhead drops into alt-mode and races into the bridge, Arcee on his aft and Bumblebee right behind her. Sideswipe brings up the rear, tires screeching across the concrete floor.  
  
They disappear into the ground bridge faster than Prowl can register their exit and his fingers fly across the keyboard, pulling up image after image.   
  
The Autobots arrive on the scene, blasters firing immediately. Bulkhead drops into alt-mode, gunning across the pavement toward Wheeljack and the Decepticon. Sideswipe and Bumblebee take aim at the Eradicons, swooping through the air like a flock of Seekers. Arcee moves to investigate the shuttles, a wise choice. There could be injured Autobots or unconscious Decepticons eager to join the fight at any moment.   
  
“Backup has arrived,” Prowl informs Agent Fowler, his own optics riveted on the screen. “I suggest that you retreat.”   
  
There's no sign that the government operative has heard him. Whatever had cut off their communication before remains in effect. He can see Agent Fowler, but that is the extent of their communication.   
  
“Prowl to Bumblebee. Assist Agent Fowler. Ensure his safety.”   
  
An affirmative bleep comes across their connection as Bumblebee drops to alt-mode and zooms out of view. Sideswipe is unfazed, firing steadily at the surrounding Eradicons. There are a half-dozen, or were, Prowl should say. Two lie in smoking ruins.   
  
It is a miracle no humans have stumbled onto this scene or gotten hurt yet.   
  
A miracle, Prowl realizes with a twitch, that may meet its end. Wheeljack and the Decepticon's clash has taken them scarily close to one of the human refueling stations. Bulkhead smashes into the Decepticon, trying to knock him backward, but a powerful blow sends the green mech flying backward.   
  
Wheeljack, incensed, takes aim and fires.   
  
Prowl's hope for an incident without property damage goes up in flames. Literally. The station explodes in a fiery burst of debris and flammable fluids. Wheeljack throws himself to the ground, Bulkhead is nowhere in sight, and thick black smoke fills the sky.   
  
There's shouting on the comms, too much for Prowl to decipher in a moment. Bumblebee bleats something about finding Agent Fowler, that he's unharmed. Arcee gives the all clear for the shuttles.   
  
Bulkhead groans, says he's still alive and then starts laying into Wheeljack about recklessly firing. It saves Prowl the trouble of saying it himself, though he will surely have words with the former Wrecker as soon as they bridge back to base.   
  
Sideswipe stands triumphant over a downed Eradicon, three others in smoking heaps.   
  
“Sideswipe to Prowl. Threat neutralized,” he says, far too smug.   
  
Prowl retracts a sigh. “And the Decepticon?”   
  
“Gone,” says Bulkhead and there's a tightness to his comm. “He took to the sky.”   
  
Prowl skims the screens. There's a small cluster of Decepticon signals heading away from the scene. There's little the Autobots can do to give chase as they are none of them fliers. Besides, he suspects the Decepticon and the surviving Eradicons are returning to the Nemesis and Megatron.   
  
He'll track them, and sets an automatic subroutine to do just that, but Prowl knows their signal will vanish at some point. By the time they investigate, the Nemesis will be long gone. Nevertheless, it might give some clue as to where Megatron might choose to linger.   
  
“Very well. Return to base. All of you.” Prowl turns his helm toward Bluestreak, gesturing toward the ground bridge. “Bring them home.”   
  
“I've got a souvenir,” Sideswipe replies, bending down to pick up the Eradicon beneath him, slinging the energon-dripping frame over his shoulder. “A present for the raging Hatchet.”   
  
“I'm sure he'll be pleased,” Prowl drawls.   
  
“Oh man!” Miko whines behind him, a tertiary sensor witnessing her dramatic slump. “I miss all the action. Every time! I never get to have any fun.”   
  
“Fun!” Jack splutters and raises his hands, as though the urge to wring the female organic's neck almost overcomes him.   
  
Prowl can sympathize. He has often felt that way when faced with Sideswipe's misdeeds or Jazz's for that matter.   
  
The ground bridge swirls to life, their victorious heroes slumping back into base. Thankfully, there is little damage this time but a few singed armor plates and some dents. Wheeljack is the worse injured, a consequence of his crash landing and his encounter with the Decepticon.   
  
“All right!” Agent Fowler says, storming toward them with all the subtlety of a freight train. “I want answers and I want answers now.”   
  
For the moment, Prowl ignores him. “Bulkhead, take Bumblebee and Mirage and find a place to hide Wheeljack's ship.”   
  
“But make sure I can find it again,” Wheeljack says, slumping onto the nearest medberth with help from First Aid. “I'm not staying long.”   
  
“Long enough,” First Aid retorts tartly. “I need to weld this and from the look of things, your ship's scrap.”   
  
“We'll see,” Prowl says, and redirects his attention to the human. “Do you wish to retrieve your transport now or after our conversation?”  
  
Agent Fowler glares, his hands tightened into fists, his jaw grinding. “Now,” he grits out and turns on a heel, following Bulkhead and the others back into the swirling vortex.   
  
Good. This leaves Prowl enough time to discuss among the Autobots without having their human correspondent overhear. He can form answers for Agent Fowler once he has all the data.   
  
Sideswipe, standing there with an Eradicon dripping all over the floor, backs toward the south hall. “I'll just take this to Ratchet then?” he suggests with another backward step.   
  
Prowl waves him off. “Do as you will.” He turns away from the console, considering the smaller humans, all of whom are gaping at the bustling activity. He doesn't wish to have this conversation around their ears either.   
  
Fortunately Arcee, though occasionally insubordinate, senses the need to make them vanish. She urges them out of the control room toward the eastern corridor, ignoring Miko's complaints, but having no trouble with the other two. Thank Primus for small favors.   
  
This leaves Prowl free to speak with Wheeljack, but not before he orders Bluestreak to take over at the console. If the Seeker and the Eradicons return, Prowl wants to know. Especially if the first vanishing shuttle reappears.   
  
First Aid has already begun welding but Wheeljack looks up as Prowl approaches, a decidedly mulish set to his faceplates.   
  
“Wheeljack,” Prowl says, bracing himself for insubordination at the least. “Report.”   
  
The Wrecker cycles a ventilation. “The Seeker's Dreadwing. I'd been roaming the universe, caught on to Seaspray's signal and set up a rendezvous. But Dreadwing must have caught the same ping. He got there first.”   
  
“And Seaspray?”   
  
“Dead.” Scarred lips twist with fury. “Tried to get me, too, but the Jackhammer's sturdier than she looks. I rode out the shockwave and followed Dreadwing. How was I to know he'd lead me back to this rock?”   
  
Dreadwing. Prowl rolls the name around in his memory banks. The name is familiar. He's a Seeker, different class than Starscream. He's one of Megatron's more loyal Decepticons. He was once a commander in his own right, though his entire unit had been wiped out by the Wreckers once upon a time. Dreadwing's survival had been in question.   
  
Prowl now has his answer.   
  
“Dreadwing is fiercely loyal to Megatron. It stands to reason that he would have eventually found his way here,” Prowl muses aloud. There are any number of Decepticons that he expects will find their lord and master as well.   
  
They must retrieve Optimus and defeat Megatron before then. Though scattered around the universe, the truth remains that the Autobots are outnumbered and outgunned by the Decepticons. If they have any hope of winning this war, it rests on taking out Megatron. The smaller pockets of surviving Decepticons will be easier to defeat given the combined force of the Autobots.   
  
Megatron, in Prowl's opinion, has always been the lynchpin.   
  
“And what of the other vessel?” Prowl asks. “The one Dreadwing followed.”   
  
Wheeljack rolls his shoulders, prompting First Aid to mutter to himself. “Frag if I know. No faction symbols and I didn't recognize it. But the moment Dreadwing caught a stray signal or something, he shifted course. I followed him and that's when he intersected with the other ship. Whoever it is, they aren't friends.”   
  
“But they aren't Autobots either,” Prowl says. Otherwise they would have picked up on some kind of signal. Autobots following Optimus' call would have announced themselves.   
  
He would have to analyze the footage later, perhaps ask the others if they recognized the ship. It had gone to locations unknown, vanishing somewhere further west of the initial altercation.   
  
“Whatever. Just let the kid fix me up and I'll be out of your plating soon enough,” Wheeljack says and bellows again when First Aid snatches a piece of dented plating from his side. “Frag, that hurts.”  
  
“It might help if you stayed still,” First Aid snaps, displaying that edge he'd learned working side by side with Ratchet in the slums of Uraya.   
  
“From what I've seen of your vessel, you will be leaving no time soon,” Prowl replies, careful to keep his distaste from his tone. Commanding Wreckers has always been an exercise in futility, Bulkhead notwithstanding. If only Ultra Magnus were here. “You will do better to remain here.”   
  
“Never said I was leaving. I've got business to handle.” Wheeljack's helm dips, optics darkening to a shade that spoke of violence.   
  
Prowl's spinal strut goes rigid. “You will not be seeking vengeance so long as you are under my command. The situation here is far too delicate to accommodate your special kind of behavior.”   
  
“The situation?” Wheeljack snorts a laugh. “Tell me another one. Where the frag is Prime?”   
  
“That is the situation. He is currently captive aboard the Nemesis and I am in command until he returns.” Prowl cycles a ventilation, reminding himself to be calm. If only Jazz were here, he'd send Jazz to deal with Wheeljack. But no. Jazz is off traipsing on the Nemesis, putting himself in mortal peril as well, and Prowl is left to deal with all of the processor-inducing miscreants.   
  
How does Optimus keep them all in line?   
  
“The frag?” Wheeljack's field flares with shock and he lurches forward, nearly off the berth, save that First Aid grabs his shoulder and mechhandles him back. “Optimus is with the 'Cons and you're sitting here getting my field report?”   
  
Prowl swallows down a sigh. “We are doing everything possible to retrieve Optimus. What will not help is you acting recklessly. Do you understand?”   
  
He can see it, the fight in Wheeljack. He tensing of his cables, the clamping of his plating, the flaring of his field. His optics brighten, hands clenching in and out of fists.   
  
Prowl hates repeating himself. “Soldier, do you understand?”   
  
“Yes,” Wheeljack grits out, but there is defiance in his optics. Prowl will have to watch him. “I understand.”   
  


0o0o0

  
  
The Nemesis is on this cursed planet, Dreadwing thinks, spiraling high above the organic world below, lingering in the wake of the Eradicon vapor trails. The Nemesis and his brother. He stands no chance of finding the latter without Lord Megatron's assistance. Surely Lord Megatron knows which Autobot is to blame for Skyquake's death.   
  
Dreadwing cuts a swathe through a fluffy cloud and sends out a ping, one perhaps detectable to Autobots, but it is of no concern. They have no means to chase him. If they did, they would have done so already.   
  
There. The Nemesis pings back. It is not visible, but the surviving Eradicons are heading toward something with purpose.   
  
“Captain Dreadwing,” a voice monotones across his comm, perhaps one of Megatron's many Vehicons. “Your arrival is welcome. Hold position. We will come to you.”   
  
“Acknowledged.” Dreadwing dives lower, skirting the edge of cloud cover, getting a glimpse of the organic world beneath him.   
  
Cities interspersed with vegetation. An army of small, squishy beings coating the whole surface. This is where the war has taken them. What could possibly be of value to Lord Megatron here? And how is it that Skyquake has fallen?   
  
So many questions.   
  
Dreadwing picks up a ping seconds before the Nemesis phases into view above him. A loading bay cycles open for him and the others and Dreadwing accepts the invitation, firing his thrusters to come aboard.   
  
“Lord Megatron demands your presence on the bridge,” says a Vehicon over the comm as Dreadwing shifts back to root-mode, landing amongst stacks of crates in one of the supply bays.   
  
This, too, Dreadwing acknowledges.   
  
He has never served on the Nemesis, but he finds the lift with ease and a quick ping to the ship's AI gives him all the schematics he needs. There's also a brief summary of the Decepticons aboard, though Starscream's designation is tagged as “off-line.” Dreadwing knows this to be a blatant lie though if Lord Megatron is perpetuating such a falsity, perhaps there is a purpose to it.   
  
Soundwave's presence is not surprising, Airachnid's is. Last Dreadwing heard, she'd vanished, absent without leave. Lord Megatron hadn't been pleased as they'd been in the middle of a rather urgent offensive against the Autobots. That she's here, undamaged and alive, means Lord Megatron has other plans for her or is simply biding his time.   
  
Knock Out and Breakdown, he's surprised they managed to find their way here from wherever they had been. He is unfamiliar with Ricochet and there are at least four dozen Vehicons and Eradicons on board. All in all, it's a formidable army. Dreadwing wonders how many Autobots are present on this planet.   
  
The lift deposits Dreadwing on the command deck. He exits, ignoring the twinge in his left thruster. The Wrecker had gotten a lucky shot but fortunately, it is nothing fatal or permanently damaging. He trusts his self-repair will get to it in time, or he can speed up the process by locating Knock Out. Whichever Lord Megatron desires of him first.  
  
Lord Megatron stands at the helm, hands clasped behind his back. Soundwave is visible at a console to the right. Vehicons monitor other consoles and through the massive windscreen, Dreadwing can see the white and blue of this planet's sky. More important, however, is Airachnid's presence just behind Lord Megatron.   
  
She occupies the position Starscream would have taken, were he still present. Indeed, the manifest lists her as second-in-command. She smirks when she sees him, her spindly extremities twitching. Dreadwing's optics narrow.   
  
Lord Megatron turns to acknowledge his presence and Dreadwing, without hesitation, drops to one knee, dipping his helm.   
  
“Lord Megatron,” he says. “I live to serve.”   
  
“Rise Dreadwing. I am pleased to see that you've survived, contrary to rumor. What news have you for me?”   
  
Dreadwing pushes himself to his pedes, holding back a wince as his stabilizers protest the motion. Perhaps he will be seeing Knock Out after all. “Your Decepticons remain scattered but I am confident they will come as you've called.”  
  
Soundwave makes a gesture, which Lord Megatron notices, and he directs a fanged grin Dreadwing's direction. “And the shuttle? What of it?”   
  
“I believe that the traitor, Starscream, is aboard,” Dreadwing says, his engines rumbling at the thought. To betray the Decepticons? Starscream deserves to perish. “He has others with him, though I am unsure of their identity.”  
  
Lord Megatron makes a contemplative noise, optics narrowing with distaste. “I see.”   
  
“They are traitors like Starscream himself,” Airachnid says with a dismissing wave of her arm. “We will smoke them out soon enough.”   
  
Traitors, she says. As though she is not guilty of abandoning her vows to the Decepticons. What game is she playing? How can Lord Megatron abide by her presence?   
  
For the moment, Dreadwing chooses to ignore her. Though this will require further investigation later.   
  
“My liege,” Dreadwing prompts when Lord Megatron's attention seems to shift elsewhere. “It is not loyalty alone that brought me here. I seek confirmation of the demise of my brother.”   
  
Optics narrow, Lord Megatron's helm tilting toward him. “Rumor travels far.”   
  
“It is not rumor. Even across the galaxy, I sensed when he emerged from stasis.” The anger vibrated through him, though he was careful to keep it from his field. “And when his spark was extinguished.”   
  
Lord Megatron frowns and he shifts his weight and his attention, both toward Soundwave. The communications specialist nods his helm, faceplate filling with static before a video begins to play.   
  
Dreadwing's talons clench to fists. The sight of his brother, hearty and hale, is a pang to his spark, but worser still is the sight of his defeat at the hands of the Autobots. He recognizes the Prime, though the little yellow menace is familiar to him only in passing. He had been present in the recent altercation.   
  
“This was not under my watch,” Lord Megatron says, the hint of a growl in his vocals, irritation lacing his field in a brief glimpse before it is quickly restrained.   
  
And there, on Soundwave's faceplate, is Starscream.   
  
Dreadwing's engine throttles his fury. “The traitor,” he growls.   
  
“Yes.” Lord Megatron returns his attention to him.   
  
“Then he, along with the Autobots, will meet their end. At my hands,” Dreadwing snarls, the emptiness within him aching beyond the point of return.   
  
“Do with Starscream as you will,” Lord Megatron says, but there is rebuke in his tone. “The sooner you find him, the better. But the Autobots are mine to destroy and you'd do well to remember that. You are here, on this planet, under my command.”   
  
“Of course.” Dreadwing dips his helm, pressing a hand to his chestplate. “I am but loyal to you, my lord.” Though should the opportunity arise, he can not be certain he won't extinguish an Autobot's spark, whether it be that accursed yellow one or Optimus Prime himself.   
  
“Good.” Lord Megatron pauses as though considering something. “There is one other detail that will affect your presence here.”  
  
Dreadwing lifts his helm, inquiring without words.   
  
“Do not be surprised to see Optimus Prime walking our halls.” Here, Lord Megatron smirks, his denta flashing in the overhead lights. “Fortune favors us. He only knows himself to be Orion Pax and I intend to make use of his abilities for as long as I can. The first mech to make him believe otherwise will taste my wrath. Understood?”  
  
For a long moment, Dreadwing isn't sure how to process the information. Optimus Prime? Aboard the Nemesis? What madness could have caused such a thing? Is he expected to blithely accept the presence of the leader of the Autobots? One of the very mechs involved in Skyquake's demise?   
  
His optics flash, his field threatening to spill his agitation. Airachnid's smirk widens, a soft laugh rumbling in her chassis.   
  
“Dreadwing,” Lord Megatron continues, vocals a rumbling warning.   
  
He cycles a ventilation. “I understand, Lord Megatron. I will restrain myself.”   
  
“See that you do,” Lord Megatron says, and turns back toward the helm, hands still clasped behind him. “Attend to your injuries. We will discuss the destruction of the Autobots when you are repaired.”  
  
“As you command.” Dreadwing tilts his helm in a bow and whirls on a heel-strut without sparing Soundwave a glance. Nor does he offer Airachnid one.   
  
He will discuss her presence with Lord Megatron when it can be done in private.   
  
He should have worked harder to blast Starscream out of the sky, Dreadwing thinks. It had been enough to view Starscream as a traitor but to know he contributed to Skyquake's death? Starscream will understand the consequences of his actions with as much pain as possible. Dreadwing vows this.   
  
With difficulty, he reins in his anger. He must continue to exert control. Starscream is sly and crafty. If he does not keep his composure, he may find himself outwitted.   
  
Fortunately, Dreadwing will have time to plot.   
  
The Nemesis schematics direct him to the medbay and Dreadwing steps through the doors, optics searching for the resident medic. What he sees, instead, causes an exercise in restraint.   
  
Optimus Prime – _Orion Pax_ , his processor whispers with a hiss of loathing – is present along with Knock Out, the two of them discussing something off in a corner. Both look up at his arrival, and there must be truth to Lord Megatron's words. Because what Dreadwing sees in Orion's optics is naivete. He maintains a quiet dignity and strength, but the knowledge of millennia of battle is gone.   
  
“Am I interrupting?” Dreadwing asks, directing the question to Knock Out but unable to keep his optics away from the Prime.   
  
“Depends. Who the frag are you?” Knock Out demands, not a hint of respect in that one. He flicks a dismissive hand, giving Dreadwing a longer look. “Other than a mech in need of my expertise.”   
  
“I am Dreadwing and you would do well to remember my designation.” Dreadwing tilts his helm, assessing the Prime. “You are unfamiliar to me,” he lies.   
  
The Prime opens his mouth, perhaps to introduce himself, but Knock Out inserts himself between Dreadwing and the Autobot. “Aren't we all strangers?” he says with a grin he probably considers disarming.   
  
“Some of us more than others,” Dreadwing replies.   
  
Knock Out's optics cycle down, but he maintains a facade of friendliness. “How true. Orion, don't you have work to do?”  
  
“Yes.” The Prime, unassuming, ducks his helm. “I appreciate your help, Knock Out.” He pauses, regarding Dreadwing with something that could have almost been recognition. “Welcome to the Nemesis.”   
  
He leaves, Dreadwing watches him go, aware that his plating is twitching. The sight is more than strange, it is downright eerie. He doesn’t know what plans Lord Megatron has for the Autobot leader, but surely none could be worth the tactical value of extinguishing the Prime's spark here and now.   
  
“You must enjoy living dangerously,” Knock Out says, all humor gone from his vocals, his grin replaced by a frown.   
  
Dreadwing redirects his attention to the medic. “What did Optimus Prime want?”   
  
“One, you call him that in front of him and I won't be able to fix what Megatron does to you,” Knock Out retorts, arching an orbital ridge. “Two, you're not my commander so I don't have to answer anything you demand from me. Do you want to be fixed or not? I've got better things to do than stand around staring at you.”   
  
There are mysteries aplenty here aboard the Nemesis. And Dreadwing would out them. Because Starscream had gone but that didn't mean there weren't remnants of plots against Lord Megatron. And if he could not think logically to protect himself with Orion Pax aboard, Dreadwing would have to do it for him.   
  


****


	8. Chapter Eight

Ratchet never expected to feel sympathy for a human. But with an over-full feeling in his chassis, a sensation of being swollen and overcharged, as though at any moment he might burst, he finds himself suddenly sympathetic to a pregnant female. Surely they must experience the same discomfort.   
  
Of course, to look at him from the outside, no one can tell what he carries within his spark chamber. No one can see the excess of energies lashing in their confines. There is no outward cue to his discomfort.   
  
Save for a hiss of indrawn ventilation and his forced stumble to a chair, one hand gripping the table for balance.   
  
“Ratchet?”  
  
“I'm fine,” he says, better a snarl, and then chastises himself because Perceptor has right to be concerned and he doesn't deserve Ratchet's ire. “This is to be expected. And this is not my first fostering.”   
  
Not that he wants to think about Knock Out at the moment. Memories of his creation are burrs against his spark, sharp pains that he doesn’t dare acknowledge.   
  
“Even so. Allow me the luxury of concern,” Perceptor replies, proving he is unruffled by Ratchet's surly temper. “After all, how else am I going to decipher your notes?” He holds up a datapad, gesturing with a screen full of nearly incomprehensible scribbles.   
  
“Oh, hush.” Ratchet rubs at his chestplate with a roll of his optics. Yes, he's aware his short-hand is nigh but illegible. No need to rub it in.   
  
“Fostering?” A voice repeats. “Is something wrong with Ratchet?”   
  
Ratchet, for his part, winces. Frag Unicron to the Pit and back but he'd forgotten that Jack had been lingering around, working on his “homework” and occasionally asking for clarification for some mathematical problem.   
  
“He is--”  
  
“Fine,” Ratchet interrupts before Perceptor can go into an explanation that no human need hear. “I am a medic, is all. The reconstruction of redundant parts can be, at times, uncomfortable.” It is as good a lie as any, especially to a being who knows very little about how Cybertronians function.   
  
Miko might recognize it for a falsity as she's proven herself both shrewd and scarily interested in Cybertronian biology. Rafael is fascinated with all things Cybertronian, but he knows how to take no for an answer. Jack, however, merely frowns and bends back over his schoolwork.   
  
“If you say so.”   
  
He feels Perceptor's gaze on him and shoots the scientist a warning look. “I do. Though I appreciate your worry,” Ratchet says to Jack and then switches gears. “Hand me that datapad. I'll translate.”   
  
“Fair enough,” Perceptor concedes.   
  
Ratchet regains his balance and straightens, the loud roar of pain easing to a dull ache. His energy levels hold steady. Luckily, he won't be needing to summon Sunstreaker anytime soon, which means he might be able to get some work done.   
  
“There is also the matter of Prime,” Perceptor says, though his vocals are softer and he shifts to Neocybex. “Prowl and I discussed it and I agree, I don't think regaining his memory backups will help.”   
  
“Of course not. They cover nothing of his time on Earth,” Ratchet retorts.   
  
Perceptor shakes his helm. “Not for that reason.”   
  
Ratchet lowers his datapad. “What do you mean?”   
  
“The Matrix did more than change Orion Pax. It altered his construction on a fundamental level. He is not Orion Pax with a Matrix. He is Optimus Prime. They are not the same mech,” Perceptor explains and pulls out his own datapad, fingers sliding across the screen.  
  
Ratchet frowns. “For lack of a better word, duh. I knew that. We all knew that.”   
  
“But we don't understand it,” Perceptor says, and then taps his chin with one finger, optics dimming. “Why and how does it change a mech? And think about it. We call it a repository of memory. It contains the history of the Primes. Why does it?”   
  
“Because it's a historical relic beyond our comprehension?” Ratchet asks dryly, arching an orbital ridge.   
  
“No,” Perceptor says, his scope giving an excited wriggle. “Because it's a memory core.”   
  
Ratchet cycles his optics, hand lowering, interest in his own datapad forgotten. “Beg pardon? You're telling me that the Matrix is nothing more than a superpowered memory core?”   
  
“In part.” Perceptor steps closer, tilting his screen so that Ratchet can look at the hastily rendered schematic. “Of course it's more than that. It has to be self-sustaining to a certain extent, with a larger storage base than our own cores are capable. I believe that once a mech has become Prime, he ceases writing memory to his own core. It is instead seized by the Matrix for future generations.”   
  
It makes an almost terrifying sort of sense.   
  
Ratchet's frown deepens. “That doesn't explain why he can't remember. He didn't destroy the Matrix. He still carries it.”   
  
“Yes, but it's drained. He can't access the Matrix because the battery no longer carries a charge.”   
  
Ratchet cycles a ventilation, his gaze darting from Perceptor to the datapad and back again. “So what, we just hook him up to a generator and give him a... a... jump-start?”   
  
“Nothing so base.” Perceptor manages a light laugh, though his amusement is tempered by the seriousness of their situation. “The Matrix is a repository of knowledge. What else do we know is much the same?”   
  
Ratchet considers, only to ex-vent in a harsh burst. “Vector Sigma.”   
  
“Precisely.”   
  
It is Ratchet's turn to shift his weight, daring to let excitement take hold within him. His gaze wanders to Jack, who is watching them both with confusion and curiosity. “Optimus must have known something. He entrusted Jack with the key before he left.”   
  
Perceptor's optics cycle wide. “You mean to say that we can access Vector Sigma?”   
  
“If we had a space bridge to Cybertron, yes.” Ratchet gnaws on his lower lip plate. They had already discussed seeking Vector Sigma for an answer, but if Perceptor's theory is true, they have their answer. Now they need the recharge and in the end, Vector Sigma remains their hope.   
  
“And Jack already presented a solution to that particular problem,” Perceptor replies, his plating jittering with excitement. “We need only find the space bridge!”   
  
Ratchet scoffs, hating to rain on Perceptor's parade. “Easier said than done. We don't know where it is, save that they've moved it.”   
  
“Then finding it will be our first priority. I'll inform Prowl.”   
  
“Prowl already knows,” Ratchet huffs, following Perceptor with his optics as the scientist heads toward the door, clutching a handful of datapads.   
  
“Yes, but not the urgency of the situation,” Perceptor replies. “I will return shortly to take a closer look at your equations.” Implied in there is a request for Ratchet to make them legible by the time he does.   
  
Pah. He should have seen those scribbles of Bulkhead's before Ratchet got hold of them.   
  
Perceptor vanishes before Ratchet can call him back, not that he made a great effort to do so. While working on the synethetic energon is important, Ratchet has another issue that takes greater precedence. His little one will be viable enough to emerge within a couple short weeks and he has to finish the frame by then.   
  
“Ratchet?”   
  
He startles. Once again, he's nearly forgotten about Jack.   
  
He turns toward the human. “Yes?” It's almost civil.   
  
Jack looks at him with a frown, his expression radiating concern. “Are you sure you're okay?”   
  
“I am as well as can be expected, Jack.” Ratchet recycles a sigh. “Considering that my Prime is missing, we are outnumbered, and lacking in resources, I am fine.”   
  
“But your friends are here,” Jack says, leaning against the side of the workstation. “That counts for something, doesn't it?”   
  
Ratchet tilts his helm, giving the small human a longer look. They had all decided to conceal the details of their relationships from the humans simply because of the human discomfort with intimacy and romance. That they are children and have no business worrying about it is another matter. But there is something in Jack's eyes that suggests he's fishing for information.   
  
Probably on Miko's behest. Bulkhead had admitted, pedes toeing the ground, that Miko's been asking some rather pointed questions. He's done his best to divert her curiosity but Miko is nothing if not tenacious.   
  
“Yes,” Ratchet confirms. “That does count. Most of these mechs I haven't seen in centuries. It is a relief to see that they have survived, though that they have to rejoin the war is disappointing.”   
  
“You spend a lot of time with the yellow one,” Jack says, his tone casual and his words anything but.   
  
They really do need to sit down and introduce everyone, Ratchet thinks. Events have happened too fast for the humans to keep up.   
  
Ratchet answers with a noncommittal noise, moving to his work bench and its array of assorted parts. There's a halfway constructed frame in the private room of his medbay and the last thing he needs is for any human to see it. Bad enough they are going to have to explain the sudden appearance of a new mech, especially when their bitlet can't be mistaken for anything but a child, in temperament but not frame.   
  
“Ratchet?”   
  
“Do you have a question, Jack?” Ratchet asks, trying not to be curt and failing miserably. The ache builds in his chassis again, spark pushing at the confines of his chamber and sending erratic bursts of static through his frame. “Or are you talking because you enjoy the sound of your voice?”   
  
Silence. Heavy.   
  
Ratchet pointedly does not look at the oldest human child.   
  
“I have a question.” Jack shuffles his feet and does Ratchet the courtesy of not looking at the medic either. “But I don't know if you’re going to answer it or not.”   
  
“Well, I can't tell you if I would without knowing the question, can I?” A huff of exasperation escapes Ratchet. His chestplates judder with a noisy creak and he presses a hand to them, sending a ping to Sunstreaker. Well, so much for the chance to get any work done.   
  
It's past time that Jack goes away. The last thing Ratchet wants is an audience. Especially a human one.   
  
Jack scuffs his shoe against the floor. “Miko said--”  
  
“Primus save me from anything Miko says!” Ratchet throws his hands into the air and turns back toward the human, crouching to put them on a more even level. “Miko is too nosy for her own good.”   
  
“Yeah, but...” Jack hesitates, gripping the back of his neck before he finally looks at Ratchet. “That doesn't mean she's wrong.”  
  
Ratchet ventilates and buries his optics behind his hand. He rubs his forehelm. “Ask your question,” he grits out. Maybe if it became open knowledge, he could stop jumping at shadows, waiting for the truth to out.   
  
“Okay.” Jack sucks in a breath, his face darkening with a red flush. “I know you guys aren't just machines and that you are giant alien robots so that means you're going to be different even if we are kind of the same.”   
  
Great. He's babbling.   
  
“Jack,” Ratchet says, putting emphasis on his name. “I don't have all day.” Literally, he doesn't. Because Sunstreaker's answered his ping and is on his way and Sunstreaker doesn’t like the humans. At all.   
  
Jack scrubs a hand down his face and then squares his shoulders. “Are you together?”   
  
Ratchet spares a second for debating between the truth and playing dumb before deciding, he's rather done with it all. “Yes.”   
  
Jack's flush deepens. “Oh.”   
  
“Was that all?”   
  
“Um.” Jack's gaze skitters around as though he can't decide where it's safe to look. “Yeah. I guess. Just wanted to... ask that.” He wrings his hands together.   
  
Which is of course when the door slides open and Sunstreaker strides inside, optics landing on Ratchet with that laser-focus he gets sometimes. “You pinged?” he drawls, only to come to a halt as he notices the organic visitor. His optics narrow.   
  
“Jack was just leaving,” Ratchet says, pushing to his pedes and giving the little human a shoo. “He's got homework.”   
  
“I do.” Jack nods rather vigorously and scrambles to gather up his books and backpack. “And, uh, thanks, Ratchet. For telling me.”   
  
“Just don't make me regret it.” Anymore than he already does, that is. Prowl isn't going to be happy but frag it, subterfuge is the last thing on Ratchet's processor right now.  
  
“I won't.” Jack hitches his backpack and sneaks a glance at Sunstreaker, who ruffles his plating upward, purposefully looking like a menace. Jack blanches and out he goes, escaping through the doorway.   
  
“This place is infested,” Sunstreaker mutters.   
  
Ratchet rolls his optics. “Just be glad you missed the scraplet incident.”   
  
Sunstreaker's plating clamps back down. “You're joking.”   
  
“Wish I was.” Ratchet sends a command to the doors, triggering them to shut and lock. “They can be annoying, but you don't have to scare them. The kids are decent, for organics.”   
  
Sunstreaker scoffs but then he glances past Ratchet. “Is that...?”  
  
Ratchet inclines his helm, moving aside so that Sunstreaker can get a closer look. “Half of a frame. I'm making progress.”   
  
A hand lifts, curling around the unpainted helm. “Better than I could have hoped for,” Sunstreaker murmurs. “Bigger, too.”   
  
“I can't make him a true sparkling,” Ratchet says, shifting back toward the half-complete protoform. “Not if he has any hope of possibly defending himself.”   
  
“He shouldn't have to!”   
  
“As much as I want to hope otherwise, he may need to.” Ratchet sighs, free hand rubbing over his chestplate. “The Decepticons won't stay their blasters because he's a child.”   
  
“Monsters.”   
  
“They've said the same thing about you.”   
  
Sunstreaker's engine revs and he withdraws his touch, returning his attention to Ratchet. This time, his hand covers Ratchet's own, no doubt sensing the flicker-surge of his spark energies.   
  
They don't need any more words after that.   
  


0o0o0

  
  
Obtaining a private meeting with Lord Megatron is easier requested than achieved. He is fully occupied by the return of his partner and lover, Orion Pax, and even more concerned with his search for these Iacon relics.   
  
Nevertheless, Dreadwing is persistent. He needs a distraction away from the reminder that his brother's murderers are both flying free on this accursed planet, and roaming without restriction aboard the Nemesis. He takes great pains to avoid Orion Pax, for fear of the urge to do him harm. It is another complication to add to his attempts to seek an audience with Lord Megatron.   
  
Airachnid, also, is doing her best to play interference.   
  
She appears from the shadows when Dreadwing least expects, offering cutting words and sly warnings. She shows up at his quarters with a cube of energon, claiming a desire to be friendly.   
  
Dreadwing wants nothing to do with her kind. He takes her energon, but he does not drink it. He has taken to giving it to passing Vehicons and on one occasion, to Breakdown.   
  
He wants no gift that femme has to offer.   
  
His persistence pays off. Or perhaps, it is better to say his patience. Because Dreadwing's status allows him access to the vaults and while he is examining the relics they've obtained from Earth, Lord Megatron arrives, carrying a cylindrical canister.   
  
“My liege,” Dreadwing acknowledges with a dip of his helm. He steps back from the Apex Armor on display. “You are looking well today.”   
  
“Victory tends to please me, Dreadwing.” Lord Megatron approaches an empty pedestal and twists open the cylinder, withdrawing what appears to be a blaster. “Orion's efforts bear many prizes.”   
  
Dreadwing inches closer, peering at the weapon. “I do not recognize this item.”   
  
“It is the resonance blaster. Created by Decepticon scientists and for Decepticons. It is only right that it is in my hands once again.” Megatron sets the blaster on the column and activates the shielding.   
  
Fascinating.   
  
“I do not recall a recent altercation with the Autobots.”   
  
Lord Megatron chuckles and lines the canister next to its twin on a nearby shelf. “Because this one was acquired without any interference. Whatever inadequate equipment they use never detected its presence.”   
  
“How fortunate. You do not intend to use this weapon?”   
  
“I do not need to use this weapon,” Lord Megatron corrects and he turns toward Dreadwing, his optics scrutinizing. “I trust you've acclimated yourself to the Nemesis.”   
  
He presses his closed fist to his chestplate. “Yes, my liege. And while it is not my place to question your judgment, I am concerned.”   
  
“About Orion Pax no doubt.” Lord Megatron waves a dismissing hand. “You needn't worry, Dreadwing. Soundwave is monitoring both he and his console. Without his memories or his matrix, he is no threat.”   
  
Dreadwing shakes his helm. “Actually, it is Airachnid whose loyalty I question. Far be it for me to give Starscream any credit, but she is far more treacherous than that Seeker has ever been.”   
  
Lord Megatron laughs. “I am aware of her devious nature and I have not made the mistake of giving her my complete trust. She does bear scrutiny.” His Lord pauses, optics narrowing as he runs a hand over his chin. “With that in mind, it is time I gave you a task, Dreadwing.”   
  
He dips his helm. “Whatever my Lord wishes of me.”   
  
“Keep an optic on Airachnid. Find truth to the rumor that she is, shall we say, less than loyal.” Lord Megatron's engine rumbles with challenge. “And then we can discuss who is truly worth of being my first lieutenant.”   
  
Dreadwing's optics brighten, but he reins in his energy field. “Yes, my liege,” he says with great pleasure. “I will do as you command.”   
  


0o0o0

  
  
Something is dripping in the darkness. The tink-tink of the liquid against metal grates on his audials, makes him grit his denta and curse Megatron all over again. This is all his fault. It has always been Megatron's fault. This is the low Starscream has been forced to wallow within.   
  
“So. Do you have a plan or not?”   
  
Starscream turns away from the jumble of wires, rust, and metal – it used to be a console. “Of course I do,” he snaps, glaring at his once trine-mate. But his trine, like so many other things Megatron has ruined, was broken long ago.   
  
“Care to share?” Thundercracker arches an orbital ridge at him, arms folded across his chestplate, concealing the Decepti-brand so bright on his plating.   
  
“It's the same as it's always been.” Starscream tilts his helm up. “Depose Megatron. Regain control of the Decepticons. And bring an end to the Autobots.”   
  
There's a laugh, mockery, and Starscream doesn't have to look to see it coming from the doorway where Onslaught strides inside the ruined bridge. “And how do you expect to accomplish that given our current accommodations?” He gestures to the ruins of the Harbinger, very little of it useable.   
  
A growl works itself into Starscream's vocalizer. “The Autobots have less,” he hisses. “And if they can manage to defeat Megatron time and again with nothing but human technology and scraped together systems, then surely we can do better with more.” Especially since the Autobot idea of an engineer is their fragging medic. They don't have a tactician either.   
  
Whereas Starscream has each in spades, both engineer and tactician. Why else would he ask Blast Off and Onslaught to accompany him?   
  
“We are smarter,” Starscream continues, wings flicking back and forth behind him, heedless of his attempts to control them. “We have the element of surprise. And we are at an advantage. They will spend their time fighting each other. We need only take the opportunities as they rise.”   
  
“Then we wait.” Onslaught sneers, his arm-mounted cannons twitching with unease.   
  
Starscream nods, processor already churning on half-formed ideas. “We wait for the chance to strike.”   
  
Silence sweeps into the shattered communications center. Onslaught's visor gleams crimson-bright. “This had better be worth it,” he snarls and whirls on a pede, stomping toward the exit. “I'm going to work on the engines.”   
  
He doesn't wait for orders. Not that Starscream expected him to. Onslaught had once been a commander in his own right. He is choosing to work with Starscream, not offering loyal allegiance. They are using each other for their own ends, though Starscream's not entirely sure of Onslaught's motivations.   
  
The once Combaticon commander will bear watching.   
  
“Are you sure you want to do this?”   
  
Starscream stirs, glancing over his shoulder at Thundercacker. “When have I ever not been sure?”  
  
Thundercracker tilts his helm, his expression giving nothing away. The empty place where a trine-bond had been resonates painfully.   
  
“What did he do, Starscream? What mistake did Megatron make that you find unforgivable?”   
  
Starscream stiffens, his wings snapping straight. “I don't know what you mean,” he hisses. “Leadership of the Decepticons has always been my intention, my right.”   
  
Another beat of silence. _Tink-tink_. That Primus-be-damned drip increases in staccato. _Tink-tink-tink_.   
  
Thundercracker shifts, straightening from his lean. “Surround yourself with that lie as long as you wish. But don't say I didn't warn you.”   
  
He leaves as quickly as Onslaught, abandoning Starscream to the dim and that infernal drip.   
  
“This is what I want,” Starscream mutters, whirling toward the scrapped console, plating jittery.   
  
Right now, he can't decide who he's trying to convince the most: himself or his makeshift comrades.   
  


0o0o0

  
With each line decoded, the algorithms become more complicated, more difficult. It takes longer and longer to decipher the newest batch of coordinates – for coordinates every single one of these coded files are. Orion has ceased asking himself why because the answers are neither given to him nor found anywhere within the files.   
  
Orion stares at the newest set. He knows that they are for this planet, this organic Earth. He knows that the coordinates hide something that could sway the course of the war in favor of whomever finds it. He knows that Megatron wants them.   
  
Why, then, does he feel he is doing the wrong thing? Why does he hesitate over transmitting the coordinates to Soundwave?  
  
Why is he taking longer and longer to decode these files? Not just because they are more complicated, but because he isn't working at his top speed. He finds himself lingering, returning more and more to the Nemesis databanks and the information Soundwave had left for him. He goes over facts and figures and histories.   
  
He searches them for that spark, that _something_ that tells him the disquiet within him is justified. He finds nothing and that doesn't reassure him. He fears he is losing his sanity.   
  
Behind him, the door pings as it swooshes open. Orion feels his plating quiver, shifting to draw tight, and doesn't have to look to recognize the energy field that introduces itself first, as always. It starts at his audial antennae and then works downward, a warm wave over his plating that invites and incites all at once.   
  
Orion shivers. All thoughts of delay leaves him and he presses the key to send the newest coordinates to Soundwave. A simple beep acknowledges the message received.   
  
“As productive as ever, I see,” Megatron rumbles as he slides in next to Orion, standing within the most intimate layers of his field, one taloned hand resting on the base of Orion's back.   
  
It is a familiar gesture, one often shared between lovers, and Orion can remember many times Megatronus had found him buried in his work and the simple pleasure they had taken standing together, chatting, Megatronus' hand resting against his armor.   
  
He wants, so badly, to give in to that gesture as before. To turn and embrace Megatron, losing himself in the crackle of pleasure, the vibration of metal against metal. There is but one thing that remains familiar between them and it is that shared intimacy.   
  
It is everything else that rings false.   
  
“I sent a coordinate to Soundwave,” Orion answers and he stills, instead of flexing his plating for Megatron's talons as he had countless times before in wordless invitation.   
  
“I have already begun decrypting the next,” Orion continues, his focus pinned on the screen and the scrolling characters. His fingers tap an off-beat rhythm on the keyboard. His single cable pulses a sluggish stream of data.   
  
“Excellent.” Approval sings in Megatron's field, warm and inviting against Orion's, and ringing with a subtle petition. “You are, by far, one of my most diligent allies, Orion.”   
  
Ally.   
  
He does not know why the term makes him quail.   
  
“I am glad you think so.” Orion pauses, half-glancing over his shoulder to catch sight of Megatron from the edge of his visual feed. “This coding string is complicated. I think that if I were to stop, I would have to start all over again.”   
  
Megatron smiles. “Well, we can't have that.” He steps back and their fields reluctantly disengage. “I admire your dedication, Orion. If only more of my Decepticons could be like you.”   
  
“Thank you.” Orion returns his attention to the screen, but he is hyper aware of Megatron's presence. His frame misses the warmth of their mingled fields, but his spark sings a different tune. “I will let you know the moment I am done.”   
  
“I know you will.” Megatron briefly clasps his shoulder and then the Decepticon leader is gone, the room feeling much larger in his absence.   
  
Orion ex-vents quietly and rests his hands on the keys, lowering his helm. It does not count as a refusal, not quite.   
  
But he knows, without being able to pinpoint why, that he can't continue like this. Not while the disquiet rages in his spark. He will do his duty. He will search for the truth.   
  
He can no longer share Megatron's berth. Not while he suspects he is being lied to.   
  
It remains to be seen how well Megatron will take that refusal.  
  


****


	9. Chapter 9

It is a familiar signal, this time popping up in the west. Desert. Wind. Heat. Actually, it isn't too far from their current location. Still, they would complain about the sand if nothing else.   
  
Prowl frowns, skimming the roster. Jazz is logged on-mission though they've heard nothing from him save that he's alive because Ricochet's been sighted. Ratchet and Sunstreaker are on medical leave. Arcee, First Aid, and Bluestreak are in recharge.   
  
Prowl's sensory panels twitch and his tactical net hesitates, but needs must. He summons Sideswipe, Bumblebee, and Bulkhead. Thank Primus Wheeljack is on patrol, though Mirage had been less than pleased with that assignment.   
  
The rather chilly response Prowl receives across the bond is proof his partner has yet to forgive him.   
  
Again, needs must.   
  
Prowl redirects his tac net to the latest Decepticon appearance, once again perilously close to that mysterious signal. The one that had led them to the phase shifter. This had to be something of similar use or great importance.   
  
Megatron could not be allowed to possess it.   
  
Sideswipe is eager to go, tires leaving treadmarks as he screeches to a halt and flips into root mode. No doubt Sunstreaker and Ratchet's most recent altercation has caused Sideswipe an endless helmache.   
  
“It's about time,” he says, flexing his battle blades. “These're starting to rust.”   
  
Prowl gives him a flat look. “We don't rust,” he says as Bumblebee and Bulkhead come striding in, the former carrying two of the human children. The third has her hands in the air, the delight on her face a match to Sideswipe's own.   
  
Prowl resolves to never allow them time to conspire. Miko and Sideswipe together would break him.   
  
“I get to go this time, right?” Miko asks, clutching her cell phone. “You can't leave me behind again.”   
  
Prowl ignores her. “We have detected another signal along with the Decepticons. Retrieve whatever they've unearthed but do not engage.”   
  
“Uh... what?” Bulkhead cycles his optics. “You want stealthy, you picked the wrong crew.”   
  
Sideswipe huffs a laugh. “He means we're not allowed to stick around and play, not with Ratchet out of commission. We need to play it safe. As boring as that is.”   
  
“What's wrong with Ratchet?” Rafael asks, adjusting his glasses. “Is he hurt? Can I help?”   
  
“No! Doc-bot's hurt?” Miko's gasp replaces her earlier enthusiasm with immediate concern. “Wait a minute. Was he tampering with synthetic energon again?”   
  
How does she know about that? None of the humans were present during that incident according to the reports on the network.   
  
“He was not and he is not,” Prowl says in his firmest tone. “Ratchet will recover soon enough and if he wishes to share the details with you, he will.”   
  
Miko frowns, unmollified.   
  
“Okay,” Rafael says, glancing up at Bumblebee. “Could you tell him I asked about him?”   
  
“I will pass the message along. I am sure he will be touched,” Prowl replies.   
  
“In the meantime, aren't there some 'Cons in need of smashing?” Sideswipe demands, once again rocking on his tires.   
  
Bumblebee chirps an affirmative.   
  
Prowl's panels twitch again. He turns to the command console, bringing up the map.   
  
“Bumblebee, you will be squad leader.”  
  
Prowl deftly ignores Sideswipe's squawk of outrage as Bulkhead slaps Bumblebee on the back, congratulating him.   
  
“Remember, do not engage,” Prowl reminds them as he activates the ground bridge. “Discretion is a requirement. Dismissed.”   
  
Three sketchy salutes acknowledge Prowl before the three Autobots fold into alt-mode and vanish into the bridge. But not before Bulkhead grumbles about missing Optimus' signature phrase. As if Prowl needs the reminder that they all desire Optimus' return.   
  
The bridge closes and Prowl gets back to work, monitoring Bumblebee's team in case they need backup. He keys a scan for similar signals to the one detected and continues the fruitless sector by sector search for the Decepticon space bridge.   
  
“So. Is there an ETA on getting Optimus back or are we just going to wait for a miracle?”  
  
Prowl stiffens, optics cycling down. He doesn't look up at the catwalk where Miko lounges against the rails, staring down at him. Luckily, the other two children have managed to entertain themselves. He should have known Miko would not be so easily assuaged.   
  
“We have a plan,” Prowl answers, careful to keep the majority of his focus on the data streaming in from the console. “We are doing what we can.”   
  
“What's the plan?”   
  
“I am unable to discuss that with you.”   
  
“Why not?”   
  
“It would not be appropriate.”   
  
“Pah. Bulk tells me stuff all the time. And Optimus wasn't secretive either.”   
  
“Be that as it may, I will not be sharing the details with you.”   
  
Miko stares at him. The weight of her gaze is unsettling, though Prowl isn't sure why. Perhaps because she is so unpredictable.   
  
“I don't think you have a plan,” Miko declares, leaning against the rail. “I think you are as confused as the rest of us.”   
  
“Miko!” Jack sounds horrified. The catwalk rattles as he comes stomping up the stairs.   
  
“What?” That feigned innocence is all too similar to sideswipe's. “I was asking a question.” Her gaze feels like acid pellets, too incisive for a human child. “It's been weeks, Jack. Aren't you worried about Optimus?”   
  
“We all are. But harassing Prowl isn't going to make it easier.” Jack pats her on the shoulder. “Come on. Leave him alone.”   
  
“Fine.” She sulks but acquiesces.   
  
Peace is gained at last.   
  
Perhaps it would be better for everyone if the humans spent less time here. After all, Ratchet is due to split any orn now and that's something Prowl doesn't wish to explain.   
  
His tacnet pings him an urgent message. Prowl diverts his awareness, only for his vents to stall.   
  
Megatron.   
  
Megatron is there with his Decepticons.   
  
At once, Prowl wakes Bluestreak and First Aid. He recalls Mirage and Wheeljack with his next sparkbeat. He contemplates summoning Sunstreaker.   
  
Bluestreak is groggy but quick to respond. Aid's in a deep medical defrag. They'll have to rely on Perceptor or Ratchet if injuries are spark-threatening.   
  
\--We can handle it,-- Sideswipe hisses into the comm.   
  
Megatron has a dozen drones at his disposal, easily handled. But only Optimus can stand against Megatron. Without him, who can last long enough to survive?  
  
Prowl shunts the percentages aside, the low success rates and the high probabilities of fatality. The ground bridge swirls to life, Mirage and Wheeljack returning. On the screen, blasterfire lights up the desert. Megatron scowls his displeasure.   
  
Sideswipe throws himself into battle, gleeful and reckless and against orders. Bulkhead follows his wake and Bumblebee races for Megatron and the capsule he carries.   
  
“Bumblebee, stand down!” Prowl shouts the order and it's heeded with as much obedience as their attempts to be subtle. ' _Do Not Engage_ ' is tossed aside.   
  
Prowl's engine growls. “Prepare to bridge,” he tells the new arrivals, fingers flying over the console.   
  
“It's about time,” Wheeljack says, his battlemask snapping shut.   
  
On screen, Bumblebee dances with the devil, a deadly game of turbofox and glitchmouse. Sideswipe leaps into the fray, a seconds distraction all Bumblebee needs. He snatches the capsule from Megatron, folds into alt-mode, and presses pedal to metal. Clouds of sandy dust rise in his wake.   
  
“We could use a groundbridge now,” Bulkhead says as Megatron's snarl of outrage is as audible as it is visible.   
  
“Trust Bulkhead to hog all the fun,” Wheeljack mutters.   
  
Prowl ignores him, selecting the best coordinates for retrieval. No Autobots will extinguish on his watch. He cannot fail Optimus, not like this.   
  
The bridge swirls to life, Bumblebee the first one through with a screech of tires. Bulkhead follows and Sideswipe brings up the rear, bringing with him the stench of discharged plasma.   
  
Prowl shuts down the bridge and performs a systems check. He can feel the fury, like a rising tide within his tacnet. He cannot, however, lose control. Optimus must have a home to which he can return.   
  
Finally, Prowl turns, his sensory panels a stiff arch behind him. “What part of 'do not engage' was not clear to you?”  
  
Bulkhead, chastened, clamps his mouth shut. Bumblebee starts to speak but it's Sideswipe who is louder, who is looking for a fight.   
  
“The part where keeping that from Megatron was more important,” he says, bristling and combative, a snarl on his lipplates that resembles Sunstreaker.   
  
And suddenly it all makes sense.   
  
Prowl forces himself to cycle down and directs his attention to Bumblebee. “Report.”   
  
The scout nods and screws open the capsule, pulling out a disk-shaped object. It takes a moment of scanning for Prowl to recognize the weapon. It is of Decepticon design, the spark extractor. The mystery is how it has gotten to Earth.   
  
But Sideswipe is, reluctantly, right. This is an important item to keep from Megatron's possession.   
  
“How fortunate that keeping this from Megatron is a priority,” Prowl says. “Though that does not excuse your behavior.”   
  
Bumblebee's doors droop, at least acknowledging the weight of Prowl's disappointment.   
  
“Bulkhead, could you take this to the vault? Bumblebee, I believe the children need rides home.” Prowl dismisses them with a look, one that he gave to Wheeljack as well. “You wished for an opportunity to repair your ship. Take it now.”   
  
“Sure. A mech knows when he's not wanted.” Wheeljack sheathes his swords and chases after his fellow Wrecker. “Yo, Bulk! Wait up!”   
  
Now Prowl can focus on the real problem. The bristling twin with his increasingly mutinous expression. Prowl has proven his worth to them before and will do so again if necessary. But the solution right now is probably simpler.   
  
“Good luck sending me to the brig. We don't have one.” Sideswipe grins, rocking on his wheeled pedes.  
  
“That will not be necessary.” Prowl rubs the bridge of his olfactory sensor. “When was the last time you merged with your brother?”   
  
Sideswipe startles, rocking backward. “None of your business.”   
  
“It becomes my business when his agitation bleeds into your behavior,” Prowl corrects. “Recharge with him.”   
  
Sideswipe shifts, his mouth opens.   
  
“No.” Prowl holds up a hand. “I know that you are platonically capable of sharing a berth with he and Ratchet. And you both know it need not be a full cycle.”   
  
Sideswipe vents heat in a loud huff. “Have you heard them lately? All they do is argue and 'face.”   
  
“And what all of you failed to realize was the effect of adding another to your bond. The asynchronous cycling is feeding the flames.”   
  
Sideswipe goes still before slumping. “That... makes sense actually.” Gradually, Sideswipe's reason peeks through Sunstreaker's aggression. “Fine. But I'm telling Ratchet you made it an order.”   
  
“I don't care what you tell him so long as you fix the issue.”   
  
Sideswipe grins, crooked and offers a sketchy salute. He whirls on a pede and then he's gone.   
  
Prowl waits a few more kliks before he allows himself to sag. His helm aches and Prowl rubs at his chevron. This is not what he expected when he tracked down his Prime.   
  
Prowl returns to the console, but his fingers only rest on the keys.   
  
“When was the last time you recharged?” There's a whisper of presence and then a hand lingers on Prowl's backstrut, right over a kinked cable.   
  
“I am operating at sixty percent efficiency,” he answers.   
  
Mirage snorts, an elegant sound. “I suppose you are underfueled as well.”   
  
His panels twitch. “Our resources are limited.”   
  
A cube presses against his right hand, a small, condensed cube of medical grade energon. No is not an acceptable answer. Prowl consumes it, his quickness in doing so all too telling.   
  
“I thought so.” Mirage sounds smug but his field is soothing as it mingles with Prowl's. “Now to convince you to recharge.”   
  
“I can remain online for another thirty-six hours, Mirage.”   
  
“And still remain optimal?”   
  
Prowl presses his lipplates together. “There are more important matters.”   
  
“Prowl.” Mirage sighs and folds one hand over Prowl's, drawing it to his lips. “No one expects you to be Optimus.”   
  
“Of course not.” He offlines his optics, cycling a ventilation. “I was not his second-in-command so I could take his place but because I am the tactical mind he needed.” His field extends, embraced by Mirage's. “All of us are meant as supports, temporary stand ins. I am not the leader.”   
  
Mirage hums assent. “We'll get him back, but we cannot succeed if you are not operating at your best.” He pauses, humor rippling through his field. “And if Ratchet had a clue you were pushing yourself like this, he would blow a gasket.”   
  
Prowl stifles a laugh. “Then fortunately for both of us, he's indisposed right now.”   
  
His panels twitch, sensing the arrival of another mech. Prowl turns to find Perceptor entering the command center, three datapads tucked under one arm. Prowl frowns, confused.   
  
“Were you not in recharge?”   
  
Perceptor cycles his optics. “No. I was reviewing Ratchet's work on synthetic energon. I have come to take a shift at the monitors.”   
  
“But I did not--”  
  
“Thank you, Perceptor,” Mirage interrupts smoothly.   
  
Ah. Prowl should have guessed. Mirage had learned all underhanded maneuvers from the best.   
  
He concedes to his partner's machinations. “Let me know the moment anything critical occurs.”   
  
“Yes, sir.”   
  
Prowl has the feeling, however, Perceptor won't contact him for anything short of an emergency. Mirage would have made sure of that.  
  
“Are you feeling neglected?” he asks as he follows Mirage back to their shared quarters.   
  
“If that were the case, I wouldn't have been polite about it.”   
  
Prowl manages a smile. Their bond hums with warmth and affection. It has always been the strength Prowl needs.   
  
“Thank you,” he murmurs.   
  
Mirage draws him toward the berth and Prowl offers up no resistance. Where Mirage goes, Prowl follows.   
  
That is how it has always been.   
  


0o0o0

  
  
The first step in any good campaign is Intel. And while the _Harbinger_ 's mangled consoles are still linked to the Nemesis, they are of little use and provide no access.   
  
What Starscream needs is the kind of information a direct link provides. What he needs is to be on the _Nemesis_. Fortunately, the _Harbinger_ can help him track and locate the cloaked ship.   
  
Onslaught fits him with a field disruptor, something to mask his signal and energy field. While Starscream could have sent any one of his new allies – with the exception of Blast Off – he knows the Nemesis best. He can easily slide in amongst a returning squad of Eradicons. Once inside, he'll only have to worry about evading Soundwave. After all, Starscream's not planning on lingering.   
  
He needs Intel. Destroying Megatron will have to wait. Though leaving a present for his former master is not out of the question.   
  
“Track but do not engage,” Starscream orders before he leaves. “I don't want Megatron to know the extent of our resources.”  
  
“By which you mean how few we are.” Thundercracker sneers.   
  
“The element of surprise is our ally,” Onslaught agrees. “The Autobots must also be taken into consideration.”   
  
Starscream's wings flick. “Precisely. The more we can pit them against each other, the greater our chances.”   
  
And Starscream hopes to do what Megatron has not. He intends to find the Autobot base and destroy it. After all, Starscream's not the one with a lingering attachment for Optimus Prime.   
  
He leaves the dubious security of the _Harbinger_ and takes to the sky, luxuriating in the wind against his wings. He slices through the clouds, rolls across a current, and hones in on the nearest Eradicon patrol. He watches from above, waits for an opportunity, and seizes it.   
  
No one notices him. Starscream sneers. It's a sign of Megatron's arrogance, thinking himself untouchable on his cloaked ship. Why would he encourage enhanced security? What Autobot could reach him?  
  
Fool.  
  
Though it does work in Starscream's favor. His ident code is silenced thanks to the inhibitor, but he pings Decepticon. The Nemesis' passive scanners will read him as an Eradicon, a drone. His biggest risk is Soundwave. Best make this quick.   
  
Starscream heads for the nearest access console, only to duck down an adjacent hall at the sound of laughter. The voice is unfamiliar to him, the humor proving sentience. The mech gets closer, half-distracted by his conversation   
  
Scrap.   
  
Starscream alters course, slips down an adjoining corridor, and heads for the storage deck. There's another console and he might even raid Megatron's stores if only out of spite. They are in need of supplies after all.   
  
The storage deck is lightly patrolled. At the spark of the _Nemesis_ , what reason is there for heavy security. And yet, one door near the lift has two Vehicon guards, visibly unarmed. Their weapons are either in storage or subspace, likely the latter.   
  
Curious. What does Megatron consider so valuable that it warrants extra precautions, yet not enough that he guards it personally.   
  
Starscream can not let this mystery go unsolved. Thank Primus he'd seen fit to arm himself with some upgrades before returning. His new null rays are about to be quite useful.   
  
Starscream whips around the corner and fires two shots before either mech can raise an alarm. The Vehicons go still before dropping in an ungainly heap. They still function but in deep stasis.   
  
Starscream grins. Quite useful indeed.   
  
He approaches the storage door, the keypad a baleful orange. Locked. Hacking Soundwave's security system will be time-consuming and irritating, but it can be done. Unless...  
  
Starscream input his overrides, second only to Megatron's. Surely they've locked him out of the system now...  
  
The light turns green and the keypad beeps. The door slides open.   
  
Starscream chortles subvocally. Megatron is as foolish as he is arrogant. No wonder the Autobots keep winning.   
  
Now to see what Megatron is hiding.   
  
Starscream grabs each downed Vehicon by a pede and drags them with him as he goes through the door. The moment they clear the sensor, he drops them and the door shuts. No. Nothing unusual going on here.   
  
Except this is not a storage room. It's a monitor room with a main access console the likes of which Soundwave favors. It's not empty either. It's occupied by one mech who is starting to turn, though he is cabled to the main computer.   
  
And there's something familiar about him, about his frame. The silver and blue and red. Those shoulders and antennae. Those blue, blue optics.   
  
Starscream recoils. “Optimus Prime!” His blasters engage, vocals a near-shriek.   
  
Blue optics cycle wide as an unshielded energy field spikes with confusion and surprise. He holds up his hands, a gesture of weakness.   
  
“Starscream,” Optimus Prime acknowledges. “I had been told you were offline.”   
  
He rolls his optics. “And you're still a fool, Prime! When are going to stop believing everything Megatron tells you?”   
  
Optimus Prime tilts his helm, genuine confusion. “Why do you call me that?”   
  
Starscream's vents stall. Surely he's not serious. “What else would I call you?”   
  
“You must be confused with someone else. I am Orion Pax.” He lowers one hand, pressing it to his chestplate. Only then does Starscream see the bright, shiny Deceptibrand. It's so new the weld lines gleam.   
  
He barks a laugh. “Sure you are.” Starscream lowers his blasters.   
  
Megatron must be beside himself with glee. How Optimus Prime has reverted to Orion Pax, Starscream doesn't know. But it's an opportunity he can't resist.   
  
“Why would Lord Megatron believe you to be offline?” Orion sounds genuinely confused. “Are you not allies?”  
  
Starscream scoffs. “Of a sort. In that neither of us wish to ever bow to the Autobots.” He pauses and moves closer, studying Orion Pax. “I suspect your dear Megatron has been lying to you about many things.”   
  
Poor, poor Megatron. Had he been lonely in his berth? Is that the reason for the scuffs to Orion Pax's plating? Is that why he's keeping the mech locked away in a storage room?  
  
Is he afraid someone is going to come and steal Orion away again? Oh, but Starscream is so very tempted to do just that.   
  
“I imagine he will say anything to keep you close,” Starscream adds, one talon tapping against a streak of silver against blue.   
  
“Megatron would not lie,” Orion says, but there is little conviction in his tone.   
  
Starscream smirks, performing an elaborate bow. “And yet, here I am.” His vocals drop to a purr. “Tell me, Pax, why are you sequestered here? What does he have you doing other than warming his berth?”   
  
Orion lapses into silence, gaze sliding past Starscream to the Vehicons he'd dispatched. “Did you betray him?”   
  
“Compared to you?”   
  
Orion flinches and retreats a step. “I don’t know what you mean.”   
  
“How convenient.” Starscream brushes past him to eye the console, recognizing hackscript and some kind of coded list. “What is this?”   
  
Orion is silent.   
  
Starscream wants to laugh, the urge bubbling up in his vocalizer. The great Optimus Prime, now Megatron's berth toy and lackey. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.   
  
He returns his attention to the console. He'll have to figure it out himself.   
  
The door to the room slides open. Starscream whirls as Orion retreats, pressing back against the wall like an unarmed civilian.   
  
And Megatron steps in, his optics at first for Orion alone until he sees the Vehicons and reads Orion's field.   
  
Time to go.   
  
Starscream fires without a second thought, giving himself enough time to transform and jet past Megatron. His former commander roars, making a blind swipe, but Starscream is too fast. He tilts to get through the door, wincing as a wingtip clips the frame.   
  
Security lights flash. Megatron has issued a call to arms.   
  
Double-scrap.   
  
Eradicons flood the hall. But Starscream designed their programming. They are no match for him. He blasts his way through, causing no small amount of damage, and makes for the nearest loading bay.   
  
One Eradicon gets off a lucky shot. Starscream snarls as a thruster ignites, sending a flurry of pain through his sensor net. It won't kill him, but frag does it hurt. And here they are, without an on-staff medic.   
  
And then, a thought. He wonders if the Autobots are desperate for news of their leader.   
  
Starscream smirks and banks to the left, heading not for the Harbinger, but for a more isolated location. Somewhere he can make contact with the Autobots without threatening his home base.   
  
Time to place his first piece on the board. 

0o0o0

  
Sunstreaker watches Ratchet work, the silence of the private room more comfortable than uneasy for once.   
  
Their sparkling's frame is a work of art, despite having been constructed of bits and pieces. He'll be full-size unfortunately, perhaps a bit larger than Bumblebee. He'll never know the true joy of being a sparkling. He'll have to learn and mature quickly if he has any hope of survival.   
  
Sunstreaker's optics dim. The past cycles itself. The mistakes repeat. No wonder their first hates them. What right have they to foster another?  
  
Do they even deserve the second chance?  
  
“I can't answer that,” Ratchet says quietly, making a few final adjustments. “But it is too late to change our minds. The charge must split or I'll burn out my core.”   
  
Sunstreaker winces. “I'm committed. I want this. You and him.” He rises from his chair, circling the berth holding his future sparkling's frame.   
  
He touches the unpainted face, tracing the decorative lines. Sunstreaker still feels as though love is a foreign concept, save for the pressing on his spark. He loves this sparkling already.   
  
“He's armed, though his weapons are disabled. He has battle-grade armor. He is as safe as we can make him.”   
  
Their bond hums and Ratchet lays a hand over Sunstreaker's.   
  
“We'll do better,” he says.   
  
Sunstreaker cycles a ventilation and nods. “How much longer?”  
  
Ratchet squeezes his hand before drawing back. “Officially? In a few days. But honestly, my impatience might win out. I've passed the point of discomfort.”   
  
This Sunstreaker knows. Ratchet's been in steady pain for the past week, though Sunstreaker's only received a peripheral sense of it.   
  
“At least wait until I paint him,” Sunstreaker says, already contemplating a suitable design.   
  
“Not yellow.”   
  
“Of course not.” Sunstreaker tosses Ratchet a dry look. “His base coat will be blue but there will be heavy red and yellow accents.”   
  
Ratchet tilts his helm, contemplative. “I trust your judgment. What about alt-mode?”   
  
“Won't he be able to choose for himself?”  
  
Ratchet manages a small smile, their bond blossoming with affection. “Yes. Though I'll give him a Cybertronian base until he does.”   
  
“Good.” Sunstreaker takes the limp hand in his, the design so different from Knock Out's. This is both intentional and a consequence of their lack of resources.   
  
They are not replacing Knock Out. He will always be their first. Sunstreaker even dares hope they might be a family again. Though that is a small kernel of hope he keeps nestled to his spark.   
  
“We can't fail him, too,” Sunstreaker says, spark swelling in his chamber.   
  
“We won't.”   
  
Ratchet's voice, so full of conviction, makes Sunstreaker want to believe him.   
  


***


	10. Chapter 10

The console pings a high-frequency signal and Perceptor cycles his optics in surprise. He distances himself from his calculations and accepts the signal, expecting it to be an encrypted communication from Jazz. Instead, an achingly familiar signature flashes onto the screen.   
  
“Starscream,” Perceptor murmurs as he skims the rather short message. He'd read the mission notes for Alpha team. He knows what all has occurred on Earth since their arrival.   
  
He also knows that no one has seen or heard from Starscream in quite some time, not since they witnessed Megatron intending to kill his second. They had assumed him dead.   
  
They assumed wrong.   
  
_I have valuable information regarding your leader,_ Starscream sends and Perceptor can imagine his vocals, that familiar drawl. _Bring medical kit_.   
  
He is injured. Perceptor saves the message, reading it again and again, as though there is some hidden truth between the lines. With Starscream, one can never be certain. There are coordinates attached, to an Earth location, relatively remote and far from human habitation. But not, he notices, beyond the reach of a ground bridge.   
  
Perceptor cycles a ventilation. This decision is not his to make. He lifts a hand to contact Prowl when pedesteps behind him announce the tactician's arrival. He always did have perfect timing.   
  
“What is it?” Prowl asks.   
  
Perceptor gestures to the screen. “Starscream.”   
  
“He's alive?” Their current commander arches an orbital ridge as he skims the message, field drawn in contemplation. “This could be a trick.”   
  
“Arcee's notes seem to indicate that Megatron has marked Starscream for execution.”   
  
“And it is not like Megatron to fail.” Prowl pauses, tilting his helm to the side. “Except in the case of Optimus.” He, like Perceptor, reads the message again, looking for hidden intentions.   
  
“He was their commander,” Perceptor says, careful to keep bias from their tone. “If he does know something of Optimus, we could use the information. But even if he does not, there is other information he has that could be valuable.”   
  
Prowl makes a noncommittal noise. “He is injured. It would be a fair trade, depending on the value of what he has to offer.”   
  
“I'll go,” Perceptor blurts out and then recoils, alarmed by his own haste. He quickly backtracks, but not before Prowl looks at him with that cutting gaze. “I mean that Ratchet mustn't leave the base, not that Sunstreaker would allow it, and First Aid is more trained than I.”   
  
“But you are our best hope for solving the synthetic energon equation.” Prowl's optics brighten as though he's stumbled on some new puzzle. “In truth, I can't afford to lose any of you. Though it would be easier to send you than to deal with Sideswipe's snarling should I send First Aid.”   
  
Perceptor manages a small smile. He is quite familiar with the Twins' antics, something worsened by distance from their respective partners.   
  
“I volunteer,” Perceptor says.   
  
“I know.” Prowl returns his attention to the console, keying a short message to Starscream indicating their willingness to meet though he doesn't give a time. Best to keep Starscream waiting after all. “And don't think for one moment that I do not know why.”   
  
Wisely, Perceptor does not acknowledge the last statement. “I'll go get my medical kit.”   
  
“And I'll find someone to serve as back up.” Prowl's reply is more of an aside, his main focus already bent to the task at hand.   
  
Perceptor retreats from the main control room to the small room he has claimed for his own. It's far too small, but better than the cramped quarters he'd endured aboard their ship. At least here he has privacy. And Ratchet reassures him that there is more space to be found in the lower levels, they need only take the time to clean it out. Time that no one has though Perceptor is certain that it will become a punishment duty sooner rather than later.   
  
A stir-crazy Sideswipe is one who invents things to occupy himself.   
  
Perceptor gathers his small kit and quickly returns to the control room. Starscream's message hadn't indicated the extent of his injuries but if it's bad enough for him to summon help, then it probably requires haste.   
  
When he returns, Mirage and Arcee are waiting for him with Prowl. No doubt they are to be Perceptor's guard, which is fitting. Starscream knows of Arcee already and Mirage can use his electro-disruptor, keeping Starscream from knowledge of how many Autobots are truly on Earth now. This is why Prowl is their tactician.   
  
“Do not hesitate to leave him there if his information is of no use to us,” Prowl is saying as Perceptor arrives. “If there is any sign this is a trap, comm me for a space bridge at once. None of you are expendable.”   
  
“Yes, sir,” Arcee says, her plating drawn taut with tension. Of all the Alpha team, she seems to be taking Optimus' absence the hardest.   
  
Perceptor joins them. “I am ready, Prowl.”   
  
“Then good luck.” Prowl reaches behind him, activating the ground bridge. “And be on your guard. We can't trust Starscream anymore than Megatron did.”   
  
An understatement of epic proportions. Perceptor steels himself and follows his team to the ground bridge. Arcee enters first, blasters drawn, and Mirage takes the rear, invisible to everything except for a sense of awareness. If you know he's there, it's easier to recognize his presence. Not so much if you aren't expecting him.   
  
It's one of those phenomenon that defy explanation.   
  
They emerge in a forest, in the dark of night, moonlight filtering through the branches above them. Perceptor, taller than Arcee, spies Starscream immediately. The Seeker is sitting on the ground, hitched up against a rock, his legs stretched out in front of him. The problem is evident, energon forming a small pool beneath his left leg. It is not an immediate concern, but it would make travel difficult for Starscream. Especially if he is on his own.   
  
“So good of you to come,” Starscream purrs, his optics focused on Arcee first before he notices that she is accompanied. “I was beginning to think you were going to let me die out here.”   
  
“We still might,” Arcee says, her tone icy enough to freeze what energon is left in Starscream's line. There is no love lost between them.   
  
Starscream chuckles and then those Decepticon red optics focus on Perceptor. “Well, I see you've gained some crew. Might I ask whatever happened to Ratchet?”   
  
Arcee's blasters whine as she powers them up. “What information do you have for us, Starscream? We didn't come to chat.”   
  
“Of course you didn't,” Starscream says, but he's not looking at her. His optics are for Perceptor, who finds himself for once, at a loss for words. “Are you missing something? Because Optimus Prime is aboard Megatron's warship and he doesn't seem to mind how much fun he's having.”   
  
Oh, Starscream. Perceptor bites back a sigh. He's never one to resist baiting someone for any reason.   
  
Arcee's engine growls. Enough is enough.   
  
Perceptor steps forward, further from Mirage and past Arcee. They could go on all night like this, baiting each other.   
  
“You tell us what we already know,” Perceptor says, careful to keep his vocals soft. “We need information of worth, Starscream.”   
  
The Seeker smirks, lounging against the rock as though his leg isn't sluggishly pulsing out his life's fluid. “You've gotten ruthless, Perceptor. My doesn't the war change us all.”   
  
Arcee makes a noise but Perceptor holds up a hand, indicating that he can handle this. He may be a scientist, but he hasn't survived this war by letting others fight his battles for him. And he would have never survived being partnered to Starscream if he couldn't stand up for himself with some witty banter.   
  
He crouches within reach of Starscream, a quick scan reporting Starscream's vitals. Energy levels down, to be expected. A symphony of minor injuries, nothing his self-repair can't handle. Spark energy somewhat unsettled, again unsurprising. Other than the wound on his leg, Starscream is the picture of health.   
  
This is not the frame of a mech who has been scrabbling around for scraps to survive.   
  
“Where is the space bridge, Starscream?” Perceptor asks.   
  
Red optics widen as Starscream snarls. “Space bridge?” he repeats, true anger in his vocals. “They finished it without me?”  
  
“Given that they stole a power source from the humans, I believe the answer is yes.” Perceptor tilts his helm and gestures to the leg. “I have my medkit and some spare energon. All I need is a location.”   
  
Starscream huffs, some of the revulsion draining from his expression. “There's nothing on Cybertron. Why do you need the space bridge?”  
  
“That's our business and none of yours!” Arcee snaps. “Do you know where it is or not?”   
  
“Of course I know! I chose the location!” Starscream's field spikes with agitation, his wings fluttering against the stone. “Whether or not I'll tell you is another matter.”   
  
“Then we go. Come on, Perceptor. He's useless to us.”   
  
Perceptor doesn't move. He knows Starscream better than anyone, coward and traitor that he can be. “You have no loyalty to Megatron.”   
  
Starscream rolls his helm. “In that regard, I have no loyalty to anyone.”   
  
“Except yourself.”   
  
“Except myself.” Starscream smirks and pats his injured leg. “Fine. Fix me. I'll tell you where the space bridge is. You don't have a chance in the Pit of taking it, but that's your problem, not mine.”   
  
Arcee makes a low sound of frustration behind them and whirls around, stomping away. She keeps within sight, but out of field reach. Whatever Mirage thinks, Perceptor doesn't know. He's sure the both of them will have questions after he returns to base.   
  
Perceptor moves closer to examine the wound. “You could always join us.”   
  
Starscream barks a laugh. “Perish the thought.” He looks at Perceptor, his optics assessing. “I didn't follow you then. I won't follow you now.”   
  
Perceptor makes a noncommittal noise. The wound is simple enough. Starscream probably lacks the supplies, not the skill. Or perhaps he has other motives. Starscream has always been complex.   
  
He pulls out the spare cube of energon, offering it to Starscream. “Here. You'll need it by the time I'm through.”   
  
Starscream watches him, taloned fingers wrapping around the cube. “When did you get here?”   
  
“I don't think our commander would approve of me sharing such information.”   
  
“Of course he wouldn't.” Starscream tilts his helm. “With your vaunted Prime aboard the warship, I imagine you follow Ratchet's orders. But Ratchet is not the one here, which suggests he's indisposed.” Starscream's lips curl into a smirk. “You have someone else.”   
  
Perceptor keeps his silence. Starscream's mind has always been a thing of wonder, he makes great leaps and bounds where Perceptor had been a lateral thinker. It is part of the reason they had worked so well together.   
  
“I thought you dead, you know,” Starscream says, his vocals much quieter than before, pitched so that they carry no further than Perceptor's audials.  
  
Perceptor keeps his gaze focused on the wound and his welding. “You didn't seem so concerned when you led the attack on Perihex.”   
  
Starscream's field wavers, a moment of regret perhaps. “Yes, well, these things happen in war.”   
  
“Mmm.” Perceptor finishes the weld and applies a static bandage, one laced with nanites to promote recovery. “I would recommend berth rest but something tells me that is not an option for you.”   
  
Starscream's chuckle lacks amusement. “I've not the comfort of a base, no.” He shifts his weight. “You'll want your payment then.”   
  
Perceptor tucks his medkit into a compartment on his thigh. “Arcee will insist.”   
  
“I'm sure.” Starscream rolls his helm and smirks as he spits out a series of coordinates on Earth and when Perceptor cross-references them, underground. “You're welcome.”   
  
Perceptor pushes to his pedes as Starscream examines his work, giving it a pat of approval. “If you change your mind--”  
  
“I won't.”   
  
Well, it never hurt to try. Perceptor bites back a sigh and rejoins Arcee. “Let's go.”   
  
She gives him a long look. “You get the coordinates?”   
  
“Yes.”   
  
“Good.”   
  
Arcee summons the ground bridge and Perceptor resists the urge to look over his shoulder. Whatever Starscream does with himself now is none of his concern.   
  
They return to base, Mirage shimmering into view, Arcee finally putting her blasters away.   
  
Perceptor heads for the main console and plugs in the coordinates. It is underground, near an energon mine. Smart. Of course, no one ever accused Starscream of being otherwise.   
  
“If this works, we owe Starscream more than a minor repair,” Prowl murmurs as he looks over the location, gauging the difficulty of acquiring the space bridge for their use.   
  
“It will work,” Perceptor says.   
  
Mirage appears on his other side, his gaze focused on Perceptor. “You were quite cozy with Starscream.”   
  
“Mirage.” Prowl doesn't look at his mate, but his warning tone is one not to be ignored. “Enough.”   
  
“We all have a past,” Perceptor allows, drawing his energy field against his frame so that no one can sense the depth of it. “But I have always been nothing if not dedicated to the Autobot cause.”   
  
“It was an observation, Prowl,” Mirage says, his expression unreadable. “Nothing else.” He turns away from the console, leaving them alone.   
  
“Megatron will have the bridge guarded,” Arcee points out, her arms folded across her chassis. “We have to be able to use it, which means we have to hold it, long enough to get to Cybertron and Vector Sigma, and return.”   
  
Prowl inclines his helm. “And that is only half the equation. We need retrieve Optimus as well.”   
  
The real work has only just begun. Perceptor sighs and tucks his small medkit into his subspace.   
  
There's a good chance he will be needing it in the future.   
  


0o0o0

  
  
Earth is not Cybertron. Will never be anything like home. Bumblebee can appreciate the organic beauty and ephemeral nature. But he still longs for Cybertron.   
  
He dares to believe they might return some day.   
  
“You know, I don't think I'll ever get used to this planet,” Sideswipe grumbles from behind Bumblebee, his patrol partner for the day. “Sunstreaker's lucky he hasn't really left base.”   
  
Bumblebee would be amused if this isn't the sixth or seventh time he's caught Sideswipe griping. And they all thought Sunstreaker was the vain one.   
  
\--It's not so bad,-- Bee replies. The feel of the sun's warmth on his plating is worth the grit on his undercarriage.   
  
Sideswipe's gears grind with disgust. “It's not so good either. What do you do for entertainment?”   
  
Somehow, Bee doesn't think Sideswipe means human television or monster trucks.   
  
\--It depends.-- Bumblebee flicks his wiperblades with a flush of cleansing fluid. --Though we'll all have our hands full soon enough.--  
  
“The spawn of Sunstreaker is something to be feared,” Sideswipe says dryly.   
  
They both chuckle.   
  
Bumblebee's sensors beep. He shifts his attention to the newly detected signal. It seems to match the ones appearing as of late though not exactly. There's something off about it.   
  
“Bee?”   
  
\--Something on my scanners.--   
  
“Decepticon?”   
  
\--Don't think so.-- Bumblebee frowns internally and radios headquarters, only to find Mirage in charge. --Are you seeing what I'm seeing?--   
  
“No.”   
  
Bee skids to a stop on the shoulder, broadening his scanning range. The signal comes in louder, a match for the previous Decepticon weapons.   
  
Sideswipe idles behind him. “What is it?”   
  
\--A signal. Another weapon maybe.--   
  
Sideswipe revs his engine. “Let's check it out. I've been bored with patrol anyway.”   
  
Bee hesitates. The signal is an exact match but something reads off. He doesn't have proof, just a spark-deep disquiet.   
  
Sideswipe spins his wheels. “Come on. Prowl says that there are no Decepticons around, but that could change at any moment.”   
  
\--Fine,-- Bee says and pulls back onto the road. --Follow me.--   
  
After all, backup is only a ground bridge away.   
  


0o0o0

  
  
He's on his way to Orion's workstation when he hears the steps behind him. Knock Out's engine growls, his energy field spikes, and his free hand twitches. It'll take him less than a klik to pull out his energon prod.   
  
“I told you,” he snarls, whirling on a heel strut, energon prod leaping to his fingers, “that I'm not...”   
  
He trails off.   
  
“Not what?” Breakdown tilts his helm, scratching at his jaw.   
  
Not Ricochet after all. Thank Primus for small favors.   
  
Knock Out sighs and smooths his plating back down. He is entirely too jumpy. “Nothing,' he dismisses and collapses his energon prod. “Where'd you come from?”   
  
“Where I'm always at when I'm not your slave.” Breakdown grins at the well-worn joke between them.   
  
Knock Out's lips twitch in something like a smile. “Monitor duty,” he acknowledges aloud and lets the rest of his systems cycle back down into standby.   
  
“Yeah.” Breakdown folds his arms and pins him with a single-opticked look. “And here you are, playing the good delivery bot.”   
  
“We don't all have the fun duties.” Knock Out manages a crooked grin and turns back around. Orion's been hiding at his workstation more than usual lately and he can't let the mech go underfueled.   
  
He doesn't need Megatron to get another reason to poke at him.   
  
And for a single, wild moment, Knock Out almost suggests they go. The option rests at the back of his processor, tantalizing and tempting. They've survived alone before. They can do it again.   
  
But now, Breakdown is far too loyal to Megatron.   
  
The moment passes.   
  
Breakdown falls into step beside him. “Funny you should say that. Kind of like you've been a ghost around here. And when was the last time you went racing?”   
  
Knock Out arches an orbital ridge. “I thought the point was for me to stop racing?”   
  
“Since when do you listen?”   
  
“Since leaving the Nemesis proved to be something of a mistake,” Knock Out retorts and rolls his optics. “Or do I need to remind you of your limited viewpoint?”  
  
Breakdown's engine revs. “Never stopped you before.” His field nudges at Knock Out's, but since he's Breakdown, it's less of a nudge and more of a gutpunch. “And I don't think it's the humans that got you running scared.”   
  
Knock Out huffs a ventilation. “Is there a point to this interrogation or are you simply bored?”   
  
A massive hand lands on his shoulder, dragging him to a halt. Knock Out narrows his optics.   
  
“Is that the way it's gonna be now?” Breakdown demands, but his vocals are much quieter than his tone. He's angry, but to a casual observer, it just looks like they are deep in intimate conversation.   
  
Knock Out tightens his fingers around the cube. “I don't know what you mean.”   
  
“You've been hiding secrets from me. Frag, you've been hiding from me,” Breakdown points out. “And all since you escaped from the Autobots. And it ain't right. We're partners, Knock Out. It's how we survived.”   
  
He gnaws on his bottom lipplate. “I'm not hiding anything,” he insists, and tells himself, it is not fear coiling through his internals.   
  
Breakdown knowing wouldn't only endanger Knock Out, it would endanger himself. Because if he doesn't tell Lord Megatron and word gets out? Megatron will see it as treachery.   
  
And they all know how Megatron handles treachery.   
  
“Pitslag!” Breakdown snarls, and his grip tightens.   
  
Knock Out twists out from under his hand, putting distance between them. “I have work to do, Breakdown,” he snaps, gathering up scraps of indignity. “So if you're quite done with accusing me of whatever you think I've done, I'll be going.”   
  
Breakdown stares at him, jaw set. “Fine,” he grits out, his field withdrawing with a sharp snap that makes Knock Out reel. “Do what you want.”   
  
He leaves without giving Knock Out a chance to retort, not that he has any words. What would he say that is not more denial?   
  
Knock Out sighs. He has energon that needs to be delivered. He'll have to worry about Breakdown later.   
  


0o0o0

  
  
“Aid!”   
  
The panicked shout hits him from three directions: his comm, his audials, and his spark. He startles, fumbling the welder he'd been cleaning. First Aid whirls as the sound of shouting gets louder before Ratchet's medbay is invaded.   
  
Sideswipe and Bulkhead stagger inside, carrying Bumblebee between them. The yellow scout is limp, his optics dark, but there's no evidence of damage at first glance.   
  
“What happened?” Aid demands as he directs them to the nearest medberth.   
  
“MECH,” Bulkhead snarls, plating fluffed as his field bleeds fury. “Had to be.”   
  
“I never saw them,” Sideswipe says, worry and guilt spinning around his spark. There's a strain in his field as well. “Something hit me. Killed my systems. Sent me into stasis.”   
  
“Then why aren't you out, too?” Bulkhead demands.   
  
“Because he has built in redundancies,” Aid answers, quickly hooking Bumblebee up to the monitors. He contemplates calling his mentor. “I programmed them myself. Before the war.”   
  
Bumblebee's still alive. His spark has a strong, steady pulse. His systems are reading a light stasis, like he's been sent into a soft reboot. But why?  
  
First Aid stares at the ragged cut in Bumblebee's chestplate. A hack job really. Knock Out knows better, would be more precise.   
  
First Aid traces the line, sees the black char of the paint. Whoever did this had used substandard tools. And...  
  
He frowns and initiates another scan, using his in-frame equipment. He compares the results with Bumblebee's schematic that he keeps on file. He has one for every member of Team Prime, old and new alike.   
  
“Aid?” Sideswipe puts a hand on his shoulder, leaning close.   
  
First Aid sags, dread coiling inside of him. “They took his T-cog,” he says, aghast.   
  
“What do you mean?”   
  
First Aid turns as Prowl enters, making the tiny medbay even smaller. Prowl's sensory panels are rigid, reflecting his anger. Sideswipe and Bulkhead shift to make room.   
  
“It's gone.” First Aid gestures to the raggedly welded line. “Whoever attacked him removed it.”   
  
“It would be useless to another Cybertronian though. Right?” Sideswipe offers, scratching his jaw.   
  
“Yes.” First Aid's optics dim as he focuses on repairing Bumblebee and coaxing him from stasis. “They are CNA-coded. There have only been a few recorded cases of successful transplants.”   
  
“The Decepticons have no use for a spare T-cog. Nor would they waste an opportunity to cull our forces.” Prowl's mouth flattens with disapproval. “This was the work of humans.”   
  
“MECH.” Bulkhead slams his fist into his palm. “They are the only ones. They tried dissecting Breakdown and Arcee. They want our tech bad enough to kill for it.”   
  
“I'm inclined to agree. Their work is sloppy. Primitive.” First Aid sighs, though he can't help the angry trill. “There's no point either! They won't be able to understand how it works. They still think us machines!”   
  
Sideswipe inches closer, resting a hand on First Aid's shoulder, his field a soothing balm to the distress that coils within him. First Aid cycles several ventilations.   
  
“But they will continue trying nonetheless. The humans can be quite tenacious,” Prowl murmurs.   
  
First Aid sighs. “I can't fix this, Prowl. I can attempt to reprogram one of the T-cogs Ratchet pulled from a Vehicon trooper but your best hope is to retrieve Bumblebee's own.”   
  
“I understand.” Prowl's optics turn flat and icy. He spins on a heel. “Do what you can, First Aid. Bulkhead and Sideswipe, come with me.”   
  
“Yes, sir.”   
  
They leave and the medbay is silent in their absence. Aid cycles a ventilation and considers summoning Ratchet once more. But no. He'd been trained well. He can do this. Besides, Ratchet can no more replace a missing T-cog than First Aid can.   
  
He can repair Bumblebee, encourage him to wake from stasis. But there is nothing he can do about the missing component.   
  
First Aid has never felt so useless.   
  


***


	11. Chapter 11

Bluestreak can't remember the last time they were on a planet with such short cycles. He feels as though the humans live an accelerated existence and he's struggling to keep up the pace. Shorter recharge shifts barely mitigate that feeling.   
  
Original Team Prime has managed to adapt. They talk of day and night, going to sleep and having lunch. Night is quiet. Even the Decepticons have adopted an Earth schedule though nothing keeps them from being active overnight.   
  
It's weird and unsettling. It makes Bluestreak twitchy, especially when he draws the 'nightshift.' It's so fragging quiet.   
  
Mirage is on patrol with Arcee. Everyone else is in recharge. Except Perceptor but he doesn't count because he's tinkering away on some project. Sideswipe and Bulkhead are on call, but that doesn't mean they are available for chatter.   
  
Prowl is brooding instead of recharging. His conversation with Agent Fowler yesterday had proven fruitless. They are no closer to tracking down MECH or Bumblebee's missing T-cog. It is as if the humans have vanished into the ether, though Fowler promised to continue trying.   
  
Bumblebee is inconsolable. He has locked himself in his quarters and refuses to speak to anyone, save his human. Meanwhile, First Aid has an array of T-cogs at his disposal, tirelessly seeking a means to assist Bumblebee.   
  
Ratchet stopped trying to convince him otherwise hours ago.   
  
The weirdness intensifies.   
  
The main console hums and clicks and whirrs. Something creaks in the distance. Boredom creeps in and Bluestreak struggles to fight it off.   
  
Worse is the silence in his spark. Jazz is still there, aware and functioning. But Blue hasn't heard or felt a blip from him since he became Ricochet. Bluestreak's used to this by now, but he still hates it. He still misses Jazz.   
  
The computer chimes an incoming transmission. Not a call from Agent Fowler, but a packet over a secure, encrypted line. Bluestreak would know that call-sign anywhere.   
  
His panels flutter. The first contact in weeks!  
  
He accepts the transmission, struggling to conceal his excitement. “This is Autobot Outpost Omega One. Transmit your clearance codes before you proceed.”   
  
He waits, on bolts and brackets, before the computer beeps and the codes spill onto the screen. It's definitely Jazz. Bluestreak pings Prowl but doesn't wait for the commander's go ahead.   
  
He quickly engages the encryption software to protect the conversation on their end.   
  
“Hey Dancer, you're coming in with a quiet purr,” Bluestreak says, a part of him wishing he had more than the flashing icon on screen. “How's the weather?”   
  
“Cloudy with a chance of acid, sweetspark,” Jazz replies in his achingly familiar accent. “Primus, I miss you.”   
  
Bluestreak's smile softens. “Likewise. What's it like on the other side of the fence?”   
  
“More fun than I thought. Less fun than I'd like. And time is short. I've got some info to share. SIC around?”   
  
“I am here, Agent.”   
  
Bluestreak startles when Prowl speaks. His mentor comes by his designation honestly. Bluestreak secretly thinks he delights in sneaking up on mechs.   
  
“Knew you would be. Got some tasty tidbits for you.”   
  
Prowl moves in beside Bluestreak, acknowledging him with a flicker of his door panels. “I am ready to receive.”   
  
“Thought so. The package is here, in relative health, but I've not made contact.” There's a pause, an undercurrent to Jazz's voice. “The rusty bucket has him working on a massive decryption project. It's how we're getting all this tasty new firepower.”   
  
Prowl inclines his helm. “I see. Why is it on Earth?”   
  
“Dunno. But you're picking up on Bot City if that gives you a vowel.”   
  
Bluestreak winces. He hates it when they talk in code, especially since Jazz has already incorporated English slang into his language algorithms. How Prowl decodes it without locking up is a miracle and a mystery.   
  
“Curious. What about extraction?”   
  
“No can do right now. Rusty Bucket's clinging tighter than a scraplet to the last chunk of duryllium.”   
  
Prowl grimaces, field rippling with darkness. “I can do without the mental image. There has been a change in circumstances here, Agent. Be aware that extraction may become a necessity soon.”   
  
“A change?”   
  
“I can't let you know more without compromise. Just know that we are closer to our goal.” Prowl dips his helm, fingers rapping on the edge of the console. “Is there anything you need?”  
  
“Save a cube of high grade and a hot date with a sexy winger?”   
  
Bluestreak grins, swallowing down a chuckle. Especially at the ripple of agitation in Prowl's field. He never quite got over Bluestreak chasing Jazz. Or Jazz letting himself get caught.   
  
Prowl's panels snap against his back strut. “I take it that means you have everything you need.”   
  
Jazz laughs. “If only you knew. Agent, out.”   
  
The line buzzes with static seconds before the encryption takes over. Even if he wants to, there's no way for Bluestreak to trace back the comm or Jazz. It takes great effort not to sigh.   
  
Weeks of silence and only a minute of conversation. It's a small consolation that Jazz is at least, for lack of a better word, safe.   
  
“What does this mean?” Bluestreak ventures as Prowl immediately connects to the console and returns to work.   
  
He pauses, offering Bluestreak a glance. “Very little, I am afraid. We are no closer to retrieving Prime than we were before.”   
  
How disappointing. “I see.”   
  
“Get some recharge, Bluestreak. I will take over here.”   
  
He debates arguing for all of a klik before abandoning the urge. Prowl won't be dissuaded from working and there's no point in Bluestreak standing around in silence.   
  
“Yes sir.”   
  
At least he heard Jazz's voice. Hope remains in reach.   
  


0o0o0

  
  
“Starscream.”   
  
He startles, helm striking the console. Muttering a curse, Starscream scoots out from under the bridge control. He's been wrist deep in wiring, thank you very much.   
  
“What?”   
  
His glare might as well be a grin for all that Onslaught doesn't react.   
  
“We've picked up another unique energy signature.”   
  
“You mean a beacon.” He pushes to his pedes, wings flicking to dislodge flakes of grime.   
  
“I said what I meant.”   
  
Starscream scowls. “Where? And has any one else noticed?”   
  
“No Autobot or Decepticon presence indicated yet.”  
  
Starscream aims for their “command center,” Onslaught on his heels. The last time they picked up an encoded signal, they were too late to the party. And Starscream doesn't like missing out. Though curiously he hadn't seemed to find any evidence of Decepticon presence. There was barely any sign of a scuffle and no clue as to the victor.   
  
“Any idea what it is?”   
  
“Trouble.” Thundercracker steps out of the shadows, lurking as he's so fond of doing. “We shouldn't bother wasting what little resources we have.”   
  
“I'll decide what's a waste and what's not,” Starscream growls. “Are we close?”   
  
He looks up at the monitor and the data streaming across it. The signal is an exact match and yes, it is close. Enough that they won't even need the ground bridge that isn't working.   
  
“We are not prepared to face the Autobots,” Onslaught warns. “Or the Decepticons.”   
  
“Then we won't engage,” Starscream's wings flick dismissively. “But we need to know what this is. Megatron isn't keeping Optimus just to have a berthwarmer.”  
  
Thundercracker smirks. “Jealous?”   
  
Starscream snorts. “Hardly. Megatron might think himself a flier but he's no Seeker.” He peers closer at the screen, something about the readings coming across as familiar. “And he hasn't a clue what he's missing.”   
  
“Arrogant then,” Thundercracker corrects.   
  
Starscream's field flashes with irritation. “Are you coming or not?”   
  
“Is that an order?” Thundercracker's tone is mild but there's an edge to it that makes Starscream's backstrut crawl.   
  
Starscream straightens. “Do I need to make it one?” Thundercracker is the last one he expects to make a powerplay. But then, it's been centuries since he fought alongside his wingmate.   
  
They are but strangers now.   
  
Thundercracker arches an orbital ridge. “It was a question. Shall we go? Time is limited.”   
  
“We go.” Starscream can't quite hide his suspicion. “Onslaught, comm me the moment you see signs of Bots or Cons.”   
  
Onslaught inclines his helm. “As you command.” The words are respectful but his tone borders on insubordinate.  
  
Starscream growls subvocally. Blast but there isn't time to deal with this!  
  
“Let's go,” he snaps and turns on a heel. Thundercracker falls into step behind him.   
  
First, he will solve the mystery of the signal. Then he will deal with his crew.   
  
“Reconnaissance only,” Stascream reminded Thundercracker as they transformed and took to the skies. “Take opportunities but don't be reckless.”  
  
“You must have me confused with Skywarp.”   
  
“I know who I'm talking to. But you don't know what we face.”  
  
Thundercracker banks to the left, cutting through a cloud bank. “I do not fear Autobots.”   
  
Starscream does not fail to notice that he makes no mention of Megatron and the other Decepticons. Clever. But then, Thundercracker always has been.   
  
“Do not underestimate the organics either. They often tipped the scales.”   
  
“Pah.” Thundercracker transmits a dismissive gesture. “You've lost your edge, Screamer. You'll never overthrow Megatron at this rate.”   
  
Starscream puts on a burst of speed, cutting in front of Thundercracker and forcing him to veer sharply away. “Then why come?” he hisses, spark a fierce throb of anger. “Why leave Cybertron?”   
  
Thundercracker is silent as he corrects his course, losing speed in the face of the near-collision.   
  
“Thundercracker!”   
  
“I have my reasons.” His field flares, indecipherable, before he draws it back. “Is that what we're looking for?”   
  
Starscream follows his directions. There's a mountain up ahead with a sheer cliff. It looks as though part of the mountain has crumbled away. Something glints in the sunlight, like metal or glass. No Cybertronian presence in sight.   
  
“Yes.” Starscream banks closer. “Watch my back. Cover me. I'll take a look.”   
  
Thundercracker flaps a wing panel. “As you command, my lord.” The edge of tension rankles.   
  
Starscream chooses to ignore it. He puts his focus into the matter at hand, scanning first for other sentient energy signatures. Negative results. Nothing and no one but himself and Thundercracker.   
  
So far, so good.   
  
Cloaking initiated, Starscream lands on the rocky outcrop. The winds here are strong, tugging at his frame. It would have been perilous for a grounder.   
  
Starscream smirks and approaches the shiny, metallic object. The signal increases in volume, nagging at his cortex. Much of the item is buried in the rock. Best Starscream can tell, it is a storage pod. But for what?  
  
More pieces of the synthetic energon puzzle perhaps? If so, it would be quite valuable. To all factions.   
  
Cybertron could be restored.   
  
Starscream kneels by the buried pod, scraping away dust and crumbled rock. The Autobot brand comes into view. He shudders. What an unpleasant surprise.   
  
Luck is with him. Most of the pod is buried but the visible end holds the lid, four locked clasps keeping it secured. It takes only a surge of energy to overload the locks. The lid clicks loose with a soft hiss.   
  
Starscream peers into the pod, scanning the contents and coming up clean. No toxins. Nothing volatile.   
  
He takes a risk and reaches in, withdrawing a thin metal rod. There is a Decepticon glyph etched on the end of it.   
  
Wait. He knows this item. He'd helped invent it.   
  
“Starscream, we've got incoming!” The warning lights up his comm.   
  
It can only be Eradicons. He would have detected a ground bridge otherwise.   
  
“ETA?”   
  
The loud boom of Thundercracker's signature weapon is all the answer Starscream needs. He shoves the pod and it's contents into his subspace. He turns around just as his sensors go haywire, Eradicons gleaming in the distance.   
  
He transforms and blasts into the air, easily spiraling around the Eradicons. Cries of outrage chase him, but their blaster fire has more bite. Starscream evades all but one, which clips a wing, leaving behind a streak of pain.   
  
Fraggers.  
  
Two Eradicons cross his line of sight. Starscream takes them out and pings Thundercracker for a location. It is time to return to base.   
  
Things are about to get a lot more interesting.   
  


0o0o0

  
  
The main room has never seen so many crammed into the narrow space. There are humans up on the catwalk, there are Autobots crowded around the console. Even Ratchet and Sunstreaker have made an appearance. And Wheeljack has been convinced away from his solitary sojourns to come to their aid.   
  
For something this important, they can't spare anyone.   
  
“The space bridge is here,” Prowl says, gesturing to the screen behind him where the map marks the location. “We can be assured that Megatron is guarding it. We know that we are outnumbered. Fortunately, we also know that Starscream and his ilk is not among them.”   
  
Arcee all but bounces in place. “What's the plan?”   
  
“We take the space bridge and we hold it, however long is necessary for a small team to find Vector Sigma.” Prowl looks upward, gesturing to the humans above them. “Jack will accompany this team and they are charged with keeping him safe. Everyone is needed for this mission.”   
  
That had been an interesting conversation. Mrs. Darby had not been pleased to learn that her only child would be traveling to another planet. Miko had been angry she couldn't go with him. Rafael had been relieved.   
  
Agent Fowler had done his best to fill Mrs. Darby with reassurances. And he'd also been the one to supply them with an exosuit for Jack. The teenager would not have survived on Cybertron without it. Cyberton hadn't had an atmosphere in millennia. Not since the core went dark.   
  
“Everyone,” Sunstreaker repeats, his optics cycling down. His engine growls. “Ratchet's in the last stage of fostering and Bumblebee doesn't have a T-cog.”  
  
“Which is why they will remain behind here, monitoring communications and operating the space bridge.” Prowl shoots Sunstreaker a warning look. He doesn't want another incident such as what happened before. And they've already had this argument. Ratchet will be fine and Sunstreaker a ground bridge away.   
  
“I don't need to tell you how important this is. Optimus is relying on us. All of us.”   
  
Sunstreaker's engine growls but Ratchet puts a hand on his chestplate, shoving him back. “What's the plan, Prowl?”   
  
“Arcee, Bluestreak, and Perceptor will take Jack to Cybertron,” Prowl says, nodding to each in turn. “The Decepticons left sentries behind and last we knew, Megatron had awakened an army of zombiecons. You may need the backup.”   
  
“Whatever it takes to protect Jack,” Arcee says.   
  
“The rest of us will keep the space bridge however long it takes and whoever we must face.” Including but not limited to Megatron. Luckily, though they are outnumbered, the bulk of Megatron's forces are unsparked drones, easier to destroy and outmaneuver.   
  
Prowl only wishes Jazz were here. He has far more experience in stealthy operations. He'll have to rely on Mirage to fill in the blanks.   
  
“Won't that tip our hand?” Sideswipe asks, rocking back and forth on his wheeled pedes. “We've been trying to keep Megatron from knowing who all is on Earth.”   
  
“That's the risk we are going to have to take. This is too important to keep a bare minimum,” Prowl says. “Optimus is counting on each and every one of us.” He looks up at the humans above them, all displaying various levels of excitement, dismay, and worry. “Autobot and human alike.”   
  
Jack steps closer to the railing, his hands curling on the top bar. “We won't let him down,” he says, an edge of tension in his voice. “Optimus has always protected us. We want to help get him back.” If he notices the stricken look on his mother's face, Jack doesn't show it.   
  
Prowl inclines his helm. “We appreciate your dedication, Jack.” He turns back toward the gathered Autobots, the main bulk that would take and keep the space bridge, and those that will be staying behind.   
  
“I do not think I need to say how very important this is, but also remember, Optimus values your life as much as we value his. Take no unnecessary risks. Protect each other.” The war may not be won without Optimus, but if he would be devastated to know Autobots were lost just to retrieve his memories.   
  
“And above all, come back alive,” Prowl finishes.   
  
It is not a rousing speech, not like what Prime could give, but it conveys what is important. There is no use in further delay.   
  
Optimus is counting on them.   
  


***


	12. Chapter 12

Starscream's words linger in the back of Orion's processor. The more he tries to ignore them, the more they crop to the forefront. It becomes harder to focus on his work.   
  
Someone is lying to him, Orion knows.   
  
He stares at his screen, at the lines and lines of code, and he makes the conscious decision to pause his work. His spark awhirl in his chamber, he shifts his focus. He dives into areas of the Decepticon mainframe that he hasn't dared touch before. He hasn't felt the need.   
  
There is a powerful encryption here, but less complex than what guards the Iacon archives. It is not beyond Orion's ability to break through. But if he does so, it will be with the knowledge that it is against Megatron's wishes.   
  
But Megatron, of all mechs, should know Orion's opinion when it comes to knowledge. It, like freedom, is the right of all sentient beings.   
  
Someone is lying to him. Orion will not let that stand.   
  
Optimus Prime. The designation echoes in his processor, his spark. But it is impossible. There is no way Orion, a data clerk, is this Prime. Starscream must be confused.   
  
But Starscream is supposed to be offline, per Megatron himself. Megatron also said that Ratchet is the leader of the Autobots, but here, in his own Archives, there is a different story. The mech listed here, Ultra Magnus, neither resembles Ratchet nor is he a Prime. But he is the stated leader of the Autobots.   
  
Surely Megatron would know what is in his own Archives. Soundwave would not have allowed false information to stand. He, like Orion, has always appreciated the value of knowledge. There is a reason he is loyal to Megatron.   
  
Orion cycles a ventilation and dives deeper. All attempts at his assignment are forgotten. There is a mystery here, one he must solve.   
  
There is an emptiness in his spark, a black spot in his memories. What is Orion missing? What does he not know? Why can't he be with Megatron without this nagging dread within him?   
  
No.   
  
His optics cycle wider. These are not the true files. There's a second layer of encryption here. Few would have noticed it if they weren't looking for it. But Orion is and he sees it and he has to find what lies beneath.   
  
His fingers fly over the keys. His ventilations cycle faster. Code flashes across the screen. The image of Ultra Magnus blurs. The answers are here, beneath the lies.   
  
And he _will_ find them.   
  


0o0o0

  
  
Starscream had not lied.   
  
There are no words for the relief that floods Perceptor as they stand before the space bridge, taken from the Decepticons, hopefully without their knowledge. It is fully operational Perceptor discovers with much joy in his spark. But that Starscream hadn't lied, that is worth a great deal of joy as well.  
  
Perhaps there is still something in him that can be saved.   
  
Prowl barks orders, setting up a perimeter. They send the signal for Jack to join them, and Perceptor waits at the entrance with Arcee and Bluestreak. Part of him wants to decline, to remain with the others. He doesn't want to see the ruin Cybertron has become.   
  
But this must be done. Jack may be able to find Vector Sigma with the key, but there might be other complications. Perceptor is the only one close to qualified to solving potential issues. He _must_ go.   
  
“We'll keep the bridge open so that there is no lag in communications,” Prowl tells Arcee, having deemed her the team leader. A wise choice. “The moment you are successful, comm us and we will bridge you back. Until then, we will hold the line.”   
  
Arcee nods, her optics a bright blue. “We'll be as quick as we can.”   
  
“I know you will. Good luck.”   
  
Luck, Perceptor surmises grimly, is only half of what they will need. They'll need the very hand of Primus himself.   
  
And then he's following his team into the space bridge and onto the desolate streets of an abandoned Cybertron, cold and lifeless in the wake of their war. The sense of urgency dims. The sight of their home planet is a punch to the chest, to the spark chamber.   
  
“What did we fight to save?” he murmurs, aching to his very core.   
  
Bluestreak steps up beside him, laying a hand on Perceptor's shoulder. “We can rebuild,” he says, with a brief squeeze. “We will return and we will rebuild.”   
  
After they've bombed the life out of the cities? After Megatron poisoned the very core with dark energon? What is there left to save?   
  
Perceptor wishes he could be so optimistic. He offers Bluestreak a thin smile. “We can try,” he agrees. Though he's very afraid it will only get them so far.   
  
Jack is a flash of brightness in the dark. He doesn't see a gutted home, but the excitement of having crossed the universe in a breath to visit another planet. His sense of wonder cuts a path through the gloom, but only barely.   
  
Until the key begins to glow and points them in the right direction, to Vector Sigma. But it points them, Perceptor notices with dread, toward Kaon.   
  


0o0o0

  
  
Orion stares at the screen, disbelief pouring in a cascade through his processor, his systems, his _spark.  
  
It cannot be._  
  
He is not Optimus Prime.   
  
The truth stares him in the faceplate, from Megatron's own archives, the decrypted data a direct contrast to Megatron's own words.   
  
Orion stares at the screen, at his own frame, and the title Optimus Prime that is supposed to belong to him. But it does not because he is a data clerk with no memories. A data clerk with the Decepticon symbol branded to his shoulders. A data clerk who shares a berth with a mech who has been _lying to him from the start_.   
  
His hands clench into fists as they rest on the keyboard. A tremble settles through his substructure. He is not Optimus Prime, that much is clear, but Megatron has not been telling the truth. That much is clearer.   
  
What has he done?   
  
The door opens behind him. The pedesteps that enter, heavy and full of purpose, are familiar. As is the field that accompanies it. Orion does not have to turn to know who has come to call.   
  
He whirls around, looking up into the face of his betrayer, and he can't decide who he is more angry with: Megatron or himself.   
  
“You lied to me,” he says.   
  
Megatron does not flinch. He gives pause. He tilts his helm, and then something slow and uneven curls his lip plating.   
  
“I told you what you needed to hear,” he corrects. “We were allies. The Autobots did steal you from my side. Anything else that falls after is inconsequential.”   
  
Orion's hands form fists at his side. He is keenly aware of the difference in their skills, their size. “I beg to differ.”   
  
“What you beg does not matter,” Megatron snarls, stomping closer, pointing to the computer with a violence Orion has not yet seen. “Unless it is my forgiveness, Orion. You say that I lie, but you betrayed me first and that you don't remember it is no excuse. You owe me your loyalty.”   
  
Orion's ventilations stall, but he gamely forces them on. Is he intimidated? Yes. But so had he been when they first began their fight against the injustices in the Senate and the High Council. Intimidation had not stopped him then. It will not stop him now.   
  
“No,” he says. “I do not.”   
  
Optics stained with purple flare at him. A growl rises in Megatron's chassis. Gone is the mech who held him close, who brought him to overload time and again. The one who recharged peacefully beside him, and laughed when Orion asked question after question.   
  
Questions that he answered with lies.   
  
“Then at the very least you owe me your spark,” Megatron hisses, the distinctive whine of his cannon powering up filling the small room. “Because if you do not do as I ask, I will take it from you.”   
  
“A price I will gladly pay if it means you will never complete whatever ill intentions you have planned.” Orion tilts his helm, baring the delicate structures of his intake.   
  
He may not know who he is. He may not know the truth. But he does know that Megatron's words have all been lies and Orion cannot trust him.   
  
Megatron snarls, but before he can say anything further, the door again opens, Soundwave stepping inside with the same silent presence he always carries. He says nothing, but his faceplate flashes, displaying an image of Cybertron and something marked upon it.   
  
“One of our sentries has activated on Cybertron?” Megatron demands, half his attention stolen by this new information. “How?”   
  
Soundwave's faceplate displays something else. Schematics. Communications. Something. And Megatron's anger grows deeper.   
  
“The Autobots,” he hisses. “What do they think to accomplish?”   
  
Orion, however, stares at Soundwave. “You told me our planet was dead!”   
  
Megatron turns back toward him, optics narrowed. “As you previously stated, I told many lies. I am but a creature of habit.” He moves closer, field a dizzying press of challenge and threat. “You will finish Project Iacon by the time I return, or you will find I am no longer the gracious host. Am I clear?”  
  
Orion works his intake. “Yes.”   
  
If Megatron can lie, then so can Orion.   
  
There's a moment, a beat, and then Megatron turns, taking the vile press of his field with him. “Soundwave, stay here and make sure Orion does as he's told. It appears I have some vermin to exterminate.”   
  
He leaves. Soundwave remains. And Orion stares at him, a mech he once considered his friend, his ally.   
  
“What is he going to do?” Orion demands.   
  
Soundwave points at the console and a recording begins to play, Megatron's vocals echoing around the room. A reminder that Orion has a task to complete.   
  
He works his intake and turns, resting his hands on the keyboard. The image of Optimus Prime is still on the monitor, staring at him with accusation.   
  
He cannot continue to assist Megatron. He can't betray the truth in his spark. He must do what is right.   
  
Orion hits several keys in quick succession, a fail safe he had written into his work from the beginning. It is a habit, one borne from their earliest forays into fighting for change. What they'd spoken then could have had them all deactivated before anyone could care. So Orion had taken action, protecting himself and his allies where he could.   
  
His spark had known the truth all along. Why had he not listened to it?  
  
Orion cycles a ventilation and hits the final key. His screen fills with static and then goes blank. The data has been erased. Weeks of hard work, gone. The newest two coordinates, deleted. He cannot do anything about what Megatron has already found, but he can ensure that no further harm can be done. Especially since he has also written a virus into what remains to be decrypted.   
  
And then Soundwave storms forward, shoving him out of the way with one arm. Orion cries out as his data cable rips free, spitting charge. It retracts into the safety of his frame, but the pain lingers.   
  
“It's no use,” Orion gasps as Soundwave's larger data cable snakes from his substructure and slams home in the console's connector. “I've erased it all.”   
  
Soundwave looks at him with that blank faceplate, not even his field betraying an emotion. He tilts his helm, still cabled to that console, and then another cable emerges. It moves faster than Orion could have anticipated, slamming into his frame and shoving him back against the wall.   
  
He groans as feedback echoes in his audials. And his monitor blinks, the console making a series of low chirps. Orion watches, staring in disbelief, as one by one, everything he thought gone returns to the screen. The cable tightens around his frame and then Orion is airborne, tossed as though he weighs nothing more than a sparkling.   
  
He braces himself, expecting to hit a far wall, when a ground bridge swirls to life and he skids through it, plating making a horrendous screech over the floor. He does hit a wall, but not in the computer room. No, here it is dark, a chill lingering in the air.   
  
The ground bridge swirls shut, leaving him alone.   
  
Orion groans and pushes himself to hands and knees. All that provides light are energy bars, preventing his escape.   
  
The brig. Soundwave had bridged him to the brig. But only after he'd retrieved the data.   
  
Orion had failed in all respects. He sighs and leans against the wall, frame aching. He had defied Megatron at the least.   
  
Now, he supposes, he is here to await his execution.   
  


0o0o0

  
  
The key leads them to the heart of Kaon, to an empty courtyard and for a moment, Perceptor thinks it has brought them to a dead end. Until the ground starts to shake, some of the building breaks apart, and an entrance rises up from beneath them. It is the stuff sparkling tales are borne of, but the large double doors open in the light of the key.   
  
And then the Insecticon attacks and Perceptor takes Jack and runs, per Arcee's instructions. They dive inside and the last thing he sees before the doors close behind him, is the Insecticon tackling Arcee as Bluestreak takes potshots from a distance.   
  
He tells Jack it will be okay, and tries to help himself believe it.   
  
Jack pats him on a heel strut. “I've seen Arcee take down worse,” he says. “And Optimus is counting on us.”   
  
He starts down the hallway before Perceptor, and the scientist follows, scanners detecting nothing. Not that they need the key to lead the way now. There is but one corridor, intermittently lit. It takes them to a massive, empty chamber.   
  
Perceptor expects a massive computer or console, something that they plug the key into like a data drive. The floor, however, is covered in glyphs. Jack walks into the center of them, turning in low circles.   
  
“What next?” Perceptor asks.   
  
The key pulses in the human's hands as if trying to offer advice.   
  
Jack looks down, tilts his head, and crouches. His free hand sweeps over the dust-laden swirl. “I think it goes here.” He doesn't wait for agreement. He sets the key down and the entire chamber begins to hum.   
  
Perceptor's scanners go haywire as Jack backpedals. The floor breaks apart along the seams, the key flashing as it doubles, triples, and then quadruples in size. Energy fills the chamber from all directions, thrumming through the metal.   
  
This is going to work after all.   
  
0o0o0  
  
Sideswipe and Sunstreaker are sparring in a corner, occasionally tapping out with Wheeljack, which in Prowl's opinion, is a far better use of their time than needling Mirage. They are all on a razor's edge, waiting for the data upload to complete while hoping the Decepticons do not notice.   
  
“This is taking a long time,” Jack comments over the open comm-line.   
  
“It is millions of years worth of knowledge, Jack,” Ratchet replies, sounding tired but alert from their base. “That it can fit on the key is the true marvel.”   
  
Prowl makes a low sound of assent.   
  
“I could help,” Bulkhead says, pounding one fist into the other. “Send me. I'll take down that Insecticon.”   
  
Prowl is sorely tempted. But he trusts Bluestreak and Arcee have the situation well in hand. Or at least, they have not yet indicated otherwise.   
  
And then a ground bridge swirls to life behind them. Prowl turns, spark hammering in his chassis. “Ratchet?”   
  
“That did not come from me,” the medic says.   
  
Not that Prowl had needed the confirmation. Not when Megatron comes striding through, flanked by Airachnid and Dreadwing, a phalanx of Eradicons flooding in his wake. Not when anger burns bright in Megatron's optics, a sneer revealing sharpened denta.   
  
“Prime's pet tactician,” the warlord acknowledges. “I should have known.”   
  
Prowl's blaster slides into his fingers and he steps in front of the console. They are to protect it at all costs. Jack and the others will return and they will restore Optimus' memories.   
  
Or they will die trying.   
  


0o0o0

  
  
Ratchet again rubs at his chestplate and shifts his weight. Standing in the command center is not helping his discomfort, but he refuses to take to the berth. Not when so much hangs in the balance.   
  
He watches the screen, the conversations bouncing between various Autobots. He hears Jack murmuring “come on, come on” to the key. He hears Arcee shouting obscenities at the Insecticon and Bluestreak's eerie, focused silence.   
  
He hears a battle going full force at the space bridge control, Autobots and Decepticons, fighting gamely for dominance.   
  
Behind him, Bumblebee shadow boxes, his field registering frustration and helplessness. It is a feeling Ratchet knows all too well.   
  
Nurse Darby looks on. Agent Fowler is tense. Miko clutches Rafael's hand and they all wait, on bolts and brackets, for a reply.   
  
“It's done!” Jack shouts, startling them all. “It's fully charged, Ratchet.”   
  
His spark cycles with excitement. “Then regroup with the others. I've got your position marked so Prowl can bring you home.”   
  
“Hurry,” Prowl growls into the network. “I don't know how much longer we can hold them off.”   
  
Bumblebee leaps to Ratchet's side, optics hopefully locked on the screen. --We're one step closer to saving, Optimus,-- he transmits.   
  
Ratchet nods. “That we are, Bumblebee. That we are.”   
  
_Just hang in there, Optimus. We're coming._   
  


0o0o0

  
  
“Autobots, fall back!” Prowl shouts as he takes another potshot at Megatron and fires a rocket toward a gaggle of Vehicons.   
  
The cavern shudders, debris raining down on them. At this rate, the whole cave might collapse around them. Prowl eyes the space bridge control, wondering if it's worth the effort to destroy it afterward.   
  
They are so few against Megatron and his Decepticons, but they have to hold the line. Arcee's team needs only a few more moments.   
  
\--Prowl! We're ready when you are!-- she shouts into the comm and there's an edge to her voice, one of pain.   
  
Insecticons have always been Megatron's largest trump card.   
  
“Fall back!” Prowl shouts again, more urgency in his vocals. “Defend the space bridge – urk!”   
  
He stumbles backward, plating scorched, as he catches the edge of a blast from Megatron's cannon. He struggles to focus, arm going numb, when a heavy weight slams into his frame, pinning him against the rock wall.   
  
“Have you discovered a cure, Prowl?” Megatron snarls, red optics bright and blazing. “Do you think you can take him from me?”   
  
Prowl gasps a ventilation, the taloned claw around his intake squeezing. “He doesn't belong to you.”   
  
Megatron's snarl would have terrified a lesser being. “Orion is mine!”   
  
“And Optimus is ours!”   
  
Prowl hits the ground with his knees, lights dancing in his optics, barely registering the crash of metal against metal as Megatron and Bulkhead go tumbling across the rocks, exchanging blows.   
  
“Prowl!”   
  
Someone shouts his designation, skidding to a stop at his side. Prowl massages his intake, looking up into Bluestreak's optics, his adopted sparkling battered and dented, but alive.   
  
The space bridge!  
  
“You're back,” he rasps.   
  
Bluestreak helps him to his pedes. “With a recharged key even.”   
  
“Then it's time to go.” Prowl activates his comm and contacts Ratchet. --Send us the ground bridge. Now!--  
  
Ratchet's response is lost to the noise of battle. It's a blur to Prowl, whose entire frame feels as though he's been bulldozed by a triple-changer. There's only one mech who's ever been able to stand against Megatron and he's not here right now.   
  
Which is why Bulkhead goes flying past Prowl, slamming into the rock wall, sending another fall of debris to come tumbling down. In his wake is a cry of rage as Wheeljack launches himself at Megatron, only to be summarily tossed aside.   
  
A ground bridge swirls to life, near enough that Prowl has only to stumble toward it. Bluestreak grabs Bulkhead and they limp to their escape.   
  
Prowl shouts for everyone to retreat, vocally and across the open comm. He doesn't care if they look like cowards. They have what they came for. And there's no way they can win.   
  
One by one, Prowl counts them. Bluestreak and Bulkhead are first through the bridge, with Arcee close after, clutching Jack, Perceptor stumbling along side. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe snatch up an unconscious Wheeljack between them and haul aft through the bridge as well, for once not whining about running from a fight.   
  
Prowl is the last and he takes a moment, staring into Megatron's rage and the Decepticon menace, to make a decision. He races for the bridge, hears the pedefalls of Mirage falling into step and Megatron giving chase. He pushes Mirage ahead of him and turns at the last moment, shoulder launchers aiming and firing.   
  
Not for Megatron. They won't put so much as a dent in that battle-grade armor. But Megatron's space bridge control is not so protected. It won't prevent the Decepticons from returning to Cybertron, but it will slow them down.   
  
And with Megatron's rage echoing in his audials, Prowl leaps into the ground bridge portal, it closing mere moments behind him.   
  


0o0o0

  
  
Ratchet has run out of curse words. He has run out of anger and yelling and shouting. Now, he tends to the wounds in silence. Because there are a lot of them. Scrapes and dents and torn limbs and things he can't replace, can barely repair, but despite it all, this is not an air of defeat.   
  
Instead, the Autobots are smiling. They are shrugging off their injuries. They don't care that already strained resources are at their limits. That sooner, rather than later, they will have to raid one of Megatron's energon mines.  
  
All these battered warriors can see is Jack, being hugged by his mother, a glowing key in his other hand. All they can see is hope.   
  
Ratchet welds the last of Wheeljack's leg – he swears Wreckers are magnetically attracted to injury – and sends him off with orders for berth rest. Not that he expects Wheeljack to obey. It'll be a miracle if Wheeljack sticks around.   
  
He and Prowl don't see optic to optic on much of anything.   
  
Yellow moves into his peripheral vision. “You should rest,” Sunstreaker says, one of the few to have emerged from the battle with his plating mostly intact. Though to hear his muttering about his paint, one would think otherwise.   
  
“Considering I spent the whole mission standing here doing nothing, I'm the furthest from needing rest,” Ratchet retorts, rubbing at his chestplate. And with all the extra energy racing through his frame, he doesn't think he could anyway.   
  
Sunstreaker moves behind him, his hands resting on Ratchet's shoulders where his fingers dip between armor plates and massage the tense cables beneath. “We all had our parts to play. Besides, now we can get to work on getting Optimus back.”   
  
Ratchet sighs and offlines his helm. “Did you see him?” And he knew, without having to clarify, that Sunstreaker would know he didn't mean Optimus.   
  
“... No.”   
  
“He must have stayed aboard the Nemesis.” Ratchet rubs at his chest, the seam between his windows. It feels as though they are betraying Knock Out all over again.   
  
Sunstreaker cycles a ventilation and wraps his arms around Ratchet, resting his helm against the back of Ratchet's shoulder. “We won't fail this time.”   
  
Ratchet rests a hand over Sunstreaker's and wishes he could be as optimistic.   
  


0o0o0

  
  
Orion feels Megatron long before he sees the Decepticon warlord. He pushes himself to his pedes from his position on the floor. There's not even the comfort of a berth in this cell, though he supposes that is the point.   
  
Megatron's field is a whirl of wrath, like a strike to the senses, and Orion feels nothing of mercy in that raw fury. And when he comes into view, his armor is a pockmark of injuries that speak of recent battle. He carries the scent of blaster fire and discharged ions.   
  
He's alone as he comes to a halt in front of Orion's cell, optics dark and blazing. His hands are clawed fists at his side.   
  
“Are you satisfied?” he growls.   
  
Orion tilts his helm. “I don't know what you mean.”   
  
“You accomplished nothing with that pathetic attempt to thwart me,” Megatron says, his looming presence the very definition of threat. “You have delayed our cause, but in the end, it is meaningless.”   
  
Orion cycles a ventilation. “Are you going to kill me?”   
  
“The thought has crossed my mind.” Megatron bares his denta. “It would solve so many of my problems. Are you that ready to join the Well?”   
  
“I am ready to do what must be done.”   
  
Megatron's engine growls and he whirls away from Orion, the dizzying press of his field no less fearsome for it. “Even free of your memories, you still sound like him.”   
  
“Optimus Prime?”   
  
“Do not give voice to that name!” Megatron's hand whips through the air and there's something more beneath the fury, something Orion almost dares call hurt. “He does not exist. He is an illusion, a falsity given life by that ancient relic. And I will erase him no matter what it takes.”   
  
Orion says nothing. What words can he offer in the face of this? Whatever it is. Megatron makes no more sense now than he did before, even if then he had been spilling lies.   
  
There's a moment of silence where Megatron ventilates and Orion watches him before the Decepticon lord abruptly leaves, abandoning Orion to the dark loneliness of the brig.   
  
He is alive.   
  
This, Orion realizes as he settles back to the floor, is not what he could have expected.   
  


****


	13. Chapter 13

Dreadwing wastes no time once he retrieves the summons. The damage he had incurred during the fight for the space bridge was only cosmetic, so Lord Megatron had disturbed nothing but a ritual cleaning of his primary weapon. Upon hearing the growl in his master's voice, however, Dreadwing had known he could not delay.   
  
He heads straight for the bridge and he finds it tense. There is an unusual silence permeating the air. The Vehicons are at their tasks, not even chatting subvocally as per their usual behavior. Soundwave is nowhere to be seen. Neither, Dreadwing notes, is Airachnid.   
  
Lord Megatron stands at the helm, hands clasped behind his back, and plating slicked to his frame as though he is about to head to battle.   
  
His fury has yet to abate. The space bridge controls had been lost to them. The Autobots had succeeded on Cybertron for whatever purpose and rumor has it, Orion is in the brig.   
  
No wonder Megatron is perturbed.   
  
Dreadwing approaches his leader and is quick to drop to one knee. Subservience often appeases Lord Megatron when is angered.   
  
“I am here as you commanded, Lord Megatron,” Dreadwing says and presses one fist to his chestplate, bowing his helm.   
  
“Then there is at least one mech aboard this warship who does not test my mercy,” Lord Megatron growls and he turns to face Dreadwing, his optics bleeding with fury. “You are loyal, Dreadwing. And I am suddenly finding that to be the most valuable trait in my subordinates.”   
  
Dreadwing inclines his helm. “I live to serve.”   
  
“Rise,” Lord Megatron commands and then looks Dreadwing over as he pushes to his pedes, his optics narrowing. “I have a task for you, one that I would normally perform myself, but I now wish to leave to my first officer. I have reached my limit of tolerating traitors. I wish for you to dispose of one.”   
  
His first officer? But that would be Airachnid-- Oh.   
  
Dreadwing bows his helm. “Yes, Lord Megatron.”   
  
The warlord's lips curl into a smirk. “I knew you would understand. And I suggest that you come fully prepared. This is one vermin that can not be underestimated.”   
  
“I understand, Lord Megatron.” Dreadwing already knows who will drag into this task. There is none other aboard the Nemesis, save Soundwave, who he can trust to be loyal to Lord Megatron. His partnership with Knock Out notwithstanding. “I will not fail you in this.”   
  
“I know you won't.”   
  
Lord Megatron turns away from him, some of the fury bleeding from his field.   
  
“Dismissed.”   
  


0o0o0

  
  
“Out!”   
  
The shout echoes through the hall as Knock Out shoves Ricochet from his medbay, a growl on his lipplates.   
  
The visored mech grins at him, nonplussed by the repeated refusals. “Now, now, Doc. Aren't you supposed to have better berthside manners?”   
  
“Not for mechs like you!” Knock Out hisses, brandishing his energon prod. “Next time you come in here you'd better be carrying a limb.”  
  
“Aw, sweetspark. Ya wound me to my core.” Ricochet licks his lips.   
  
Knock Out shudders and stomps back into the bay. Bad enough Ricochet won't stop pestering him, but the fragger left scratches in his finish.   
  
Scratches!  
  
Where's the slagging buffer?”   
  
Knock Out digs through several disorganized drawers. Hadn't he only used it yesterday?  
  
“Looking for this?”   
  
Knock Out whirls around to find Breakdown holding his favorite buffer, casually tossing it from hand to hand. His partner's expression is as inscrutable as his energy field.   
  
“As a matter of fact, I was.” Knock Out strides across the floor, snatching the buffer away. “Where've you been?”   
  
“Busy.” Breakdown follows him deeper into the medbay. “Not all of us have babysitting duty.”   
  
“Pah! Have you seen these scratches?” Knock Out huffs. “Autobots have no sense of personal dignity.”   
  
Breakdown makes a noncommittal noise. “If you say so. Do you have anymore chargers?”   
  
“A few. Why?”   
  
He rolls his massive shoulders, cannon twitching. “Got a mission. Might need the back up.”   
  
“Mission?” Knock Out retrieves the spare charges and hands them over. He'd spent most of the afternoon patching up minor damage from the battle at the space bridge. And he'd heard the rumors that Orion is now residing in the brig. Which means they probably don't have any more decoded coordinates.   
  
“No Autobots involved. My paint is safe.” Breakdown laughs and tumbles the charges into a thigh compartment. “Just something that needs handling.”   
  
“Something... or someone?” Knock Out's optics cycle down.   
  
“What's it matter to you? Not like you’re close to anyone on the ship.”   
  
Knock Out folds his arms, turning away. “No,” he agrees, feeling the ache in his chassis. “I'm not.”   
  
The silence is somehow louder for it.   
  
“And who's fault is that?”   
  
Knock Out presses his lipplates together. He's not getting into this argument again.   
  
“Fine. Whatever. I've got to meet Dreadwing. You just... do whatever it is you do around here.”   
  
He hears Breakdown leave, the heavy stride getting further and further away. Only then does Knock Out cycle a ventilation. He rubs his faceplate.   
  
This is all his creators' fault. If they hadn't attempted to 'save' him, Knock Out wouldn't have to lie to protect himself.   
  
Damn then. Damn them both.   
  


0o0o0

  
  
Ratchet sits on the bench and watches Sunstreaker work, idly adjusting his own right knee joint. It's soothing to watch Sunstreaker in the midst of focus, every processing kernel devoted to perfection. The quiet sweep of the brushstrokes is as soothing as the soft mingling of their fields.   
  
It was the most peaceful Ratchet has ever seen Sunstreaker in quite some time. Barring the night they bonded of course. And it's nice to see Sunstreaker painting again, even if it is only other mechs. It's a start.   
  
“You stare any harder and I might get a complex,” Sunstreaker murmurs, only briefly glancing up at him.   
  
Ratchet rolls his optics. “You already have one.”   
  
“Good point.” A soft ripple of amusement dances through Sunstreaker's energy field.   
  
Ratchet tightens another bolt and tests the joint. It flexes as smooth as he can manage without proper supplies. It'll do for now.   
  
Ratchet shifts on the berth and returns his attention to Sunstreaker, who is giving him an odd look. “What?”   
  
“Do you need me?”   
  
Ratchet cycles his optics. “Is that a trick question?”   
  
Sunstreaker lowers his brush, setting it down with great care. “You're rubbing your seam.”   
  
Only then does Ratchet realize what he's doing. Discomfort had been such a constant as of late that he's scarcely noticed the odd twinge or pain. But now, there's a telltale jitter in his chestplate and his spark's reading a ten percent increase in temperature.   
  
“So I am.” Joy tugs at Ratchet's lips. “My spark is approaching critical mass. Looks like the energy is forming a life of it's own.”   
  
Sunstreaker startles. “Then...?”  
  
Ratchet nods and slides from the berth, swallowing a grimace. The pain now is more pronounced. Had it been like this the first time?  
  
“Call Perceptor and First Aid,” Ratchet says as his internal systems start a cascade of warnings. “I won't be in a state to make the transfer.”   
  
Sunstreaker crosses the floor, taking his hand and giving it a brief squeeze. He says nothing but the flash of love through their bond is all the words Ratchet needs.   
  
And then Sunstreaker steps away to make the necessary preparations, though he is never far from field contact.   
  
He'd missed Knock Out's first spark of life. He refuses to do the same here.   
  
Ratchet presses on his juddering chestplates, a surge of charge snapping at his fingers, hot enough to scorch. Impatient bitlet!  
  
He activates his comm. --Prowl.--  
  
\--Is it time?--  
  
Ratchet slumps, a wave of vertigo washing over him. --Guess you won the bet.--  
  
\--I always do.-- Prowl sounds far too smug. --Spark of Sunstreaker's spark would always choose the most difficult time to emerge. Good luck, Ratchet.--  
  
He almost scoffs. He's beyond luck at this point. There's no turning back. The risk is higher but so are the rewards.   
  
Ratchet looks at the youngling frame on the medberth, crafted of spare parts, but exquisitely painted and detailed by a loving genitor.   
  
It's worth the pain.   
  


0o0o0

  
  
The ping is his first indication that something is amiss. No one comes to visit. Megatron would have summoned him over the comms. Breakdown knows his door code.   
  
Knock Out rises from the berth, a disquiet stirring within him. If there had been a medical emergency, Knock Out would have gotten the alert from his console. This could only be a personal visit.   
  
It better not be Ricochet again. Knock Out is done verbally expressing his disinterest. No one says he has to repair every broken Decepticon that wanders into his medbay.   
  
The door, however, opens to Dreadwing. Knock Out can't think of a single mech more unexpected.   
  
“Can I help you?” Knock Out drawls, leaning against the door frame. He highly doubts the Seeker would have come by for a friendly frag.   
  
Especially considering his expression, his face unreadable and his field tightly withdrawn. There is something stuck all over his armor, and he scents of pine and smoke. Knock Out frowns.   
  
“What do you know of Breakdown's assignment?”   
  
Knock Out folds his arms over his chestplate. “I know he was supposed to be your backup.”   
  
“I see.”   
  
“What is this about?”   
  
“Airachnid.”   
  
Knock Out narrows his optics. “What about her?”  
  
Dreadwing audibly cycles a ventilation. “We were tasked with disposing of her. We failed. Breakdown suffered the consequences.”   
  
Knock Out straightens. “Why didn't you call me to medbay?” he demands, spark a sharp jab in his chassis. He's seen what that spider-slag can do. “It would have been faster.”   
  
Dreadwing grabs his arm before Knock Out can get more than a step away. “That won't be necessary. I wanted to inform you that Breakdown is not in the medbay. Because Airachnid terminated him.”   
  
Knock Out's ventilations stall. “What?”   
  
“It is as I said.” Dreadwing releases his arm and retreats several steps. “I was unable to recover his remains. By the time I worked myself free, both had gone.”   
  
“Then he might still be alive!”   
  
“No.” Dreadwing's field ripples with the faintest edge of an apology. “Airachnid doesn't take prisoners, only trophies.”   
  
Knock Out grits his denta, retreating a step. “And yet you return undamaged.” Though that explains the weird substance covering his frame: webbing.   
  
“Such is the course of Fate.” Dreadwing retreats another pace as though desperate to put space between them. “I've said my piece. Good recharge.”   
  
Dreadwing walks away, leaving Knock Out alone in the hall, a part of him numb with disbelief. No. Not a part. All of him.   
  
He activates his comm. --Breakdown.--  
  
Nothing.   
  
\--Breakdown, answer me, frag it!--  
  
Not even static. Just dead air. No reply. As though the receiver does not exist.   
  
Knock Out's hand is shaking. He returns to his quarters, but his processor isn't functioning.   
  
They had survived the war together. They'd survived Cybertron, a stint in a Neutral camp, and an Autobot prison. _Together._   
  
He shutters his optics, tries to focus on ventilating, listens to the stutter of the timing mechanism.   
  
\--Breakdown, you slagger! Answer me!--  
  
Silence.   
  
Knock Out slumps to the berth and buries his faceplate in his hands.   
  


0o0o0

  
  
Waiting is dull but it does have it's rewards, Starscream muses. After all, how patient had he been while plotting his first usurpation of Megatron's command?  
  
And now it proves in his favor once again.   
  
Three Decepticon signals on Earth. This merits a personal investigation. Especially since one of those signals is _her_.   
  
He leaves Onslaught in charge, ignoring their persistent demands for a plan of action. Blast Off, especially, is tired of being told to work on the engines. He doesn't fit very well down there, no matter how much mass he subspaces, and the tight quarters are offputting.  
  
He has yet to learn the value of patience. A hasty offense would spell their doom.   
  
Starscream follows the ping, keeping to the clouds. He scans all frequencies, sure he'll stumble upon their comm line eventually.   
  
And he's right.   
  
But rather than catch some banal chatter, Starscream hears cursing, shouting and the sound of battle. Which is odd because there are no signs of an Autobot presence. Surely they aren't fighting humans?   
  
Starscream considers the players. Two are of Megatron's most loyal followers. Whereas Airachnid is only loyal to herself.   
  
Starscream laughs. It all becomes clear.   
  
Poor Airachnid. She's not even worthy of Megatron's personal touch. She's only worth the Lackeys.   
  
Time for a closer look. Starscream could use the entertainment.   
  
The comm line goes eerily silent. Starscream frowns to himself, returns to root mode, and lands in a clearing, on a gravel road. He is otherwise surrounded by trees. The idle noise of an organic planet in motion has quieted.   
  
It's silent. Too silent for Decepticons to be engaging in mortal combat nearby.   
  
Starscream sets his sensors to high alert and scans for Decepticon signals. Nothing.   
  
He does, however, detect traces of energon.   
  
Starscream eases into the forest, atmospheric sensors picking up the residue of blasters and energy weapons. The ground is disturbed.   
  
Hmm. He reaches out, talons scraping over a tree. There are broken branches and... yes. Energon. Small splatters and then some metal scrap, but no frame.   
  
Starscream crouches to get a closer look at a puddle of energon. He swipes a talon through the sticky mess. Too sticky. Definitely ground frame grade.   
  
There's a trail, minute though it may be. Starscream follows it to a gravel road, recently disturbed. There's no sign of Airachnid, Dreadwing, or Breakdown. But the air reeks of humans. And Airachnid's had dealings with them before.   
  
Starscream follows the road until it is less gravel and more dirt, then over-grown with recently trampled vegetation. This leads to a clearing and a warehouse. How curious.   
  
He keeps to the shadows, observing from afar. Humans clad in uniforms, their faces masked, scurry all over the site. There's a large truck parked nearby, enough to have transported a damaged Cybertronian perhaps? He can see the glow and spatter of energon, so transporting one recently then.   
  
Well, it is no less than Airachnid deserves. But Starscream can't have the humans knowing too much about Cybertronian biology.   
  
He stealths to the back and peers in through an open shutter. It is not Airachnid the humans have acquired, but Breakdown. Except this time, he's most certainly offline. Airachnid had not left him intact.   
  
Trust her to have slithered away. Dreadwing must have survived, too.   
  
Starscream smirks as he notices barrels of fuel stacked nearby. Both within sight and range. They are making it too easy for him.   
  
He steps back from the warehouse, raises his arm, and fires. The resulting explosion brings no small amount of satisfaction. It's even better to circle around the building, picking off the humans attempting to escape the raging inferno.   
  
\--Starscream.--  
  
\--I'm busy,-- he snaps as he destroys their three transports, the SUVs shredding like tinfoil.   
  
Bullets ping off his plating like rain drops. Starscream swats the humans aide, their fragile bodies shattering.   
  
\--The Harbinger's picked up something.--  
  
Starscream huffs his irritation. --I'll return shortly. Starscream, out.--  
  
One more human earns a close encounter with a tree. Starscream scans the clearing but finds no others present. Good.   
  
He returns to the warehouse, still aflame. In the wreckage, amid collapsed walls and a partially collapsed roof, Starscream can make out Breakdown's remains, blackened with soot. He'll be of no use to anyone, Cybertronian or human, now. Not after the fire gets to what remained of his energon reserves.   
  
He is, for all intents and purposes, free.   
  
“You owe me again, Breakdown,” Starscream murmurs. “Too bad I'll never be able to collect.”   
  
There's nothing left of use in the clearing. The humans are dead, their equipment destroyed. Whatever plans they have are burned to ash.   
  
Starscream returns to the Harbinger in record time, more than a little concerned by whatever the scanners had found. Sooner or later, Megatron will remember the Decepticon warship he left behind. Starscream doesn't want to be caught off guard.   
  
“What is it?” he demands as he strolls into what remains of the Harbinger's control center. He's put a lot of effort into these consoles and while they are cobbled together, they function.   
  
His team, and Starscream loosely calls it that, are all waiting for him. The screens, however, show nothing but the usual images. They have been tracking the Nemesis on the off-chance Starscream proves ready to attack. There is a secondary program running an algorithm to help narrow down the location of the Autobot base.   
  
But there is nothing on display that would warrant Starscream's urgent return.   
  
He narrows his optics. “What's going on?”   
  
“We're tired of waiting, Starscream,” Onslaught says, folding his arms across his chassis. Blast Off, behind him and subspacing quite a lot of mass, stands shoulder to shoulder with his once commander.   
  
“We want what you've promised,” the shuttle intones.   
  
Starscream looks at Thundercracker. “And you?” he asks, stepping closer. “You also want your reward without having done anything to deserve it?”   
  
“I want answers,” Thundercracker says, wings flicking back in challenge. “You've dragged us here to this planet and all we've done so far is hide in the dust and shadows with nothing to show for the risk. You made us promises, Starscream. Now it's time to keep them.”  
  
How frustrating. Starscream cycles a ventilation and drags a palm down his face. “Fine. Onslaught, come with me. There's limited space as it is.”   
  
His three allies exchange glances and mutter amongst themselves. It is times like these that Starscream can understand Megatron's favored method of discipline. Subordinates are less likely to disobey if they think there are consequences. And though Starscream knows himself to be a capable leader, he has to admit that he doesn't have the presence his dear master carries.   
  
Finally, after a short conference, Onslaught steps forward. “Lead the way.”   
  
Starscream huffs a ventilation and rolls his optics. “Come on.” He takes off down a dark hallway, one that heads deeper into the wreckage, closer to where the Harbinger had broke in half.   
  
He'd discovered this long ago, when he'd stumbled here after his encounter with Megatron in the mine. He'd come thinking he was going to die in the abandoned remains of a Decepticon warship. And then he'd found the shuttle and enough energon for a one-way trip to Cybertron.   
  
He'd also found a laboratory, it's contents of little use to him at the time because he didn't have the means to take full advantage of their potential. It was only in remembering a couple old friends did the lab's mysteries hold a purpose.   
  
“This had better not be a trick, Starscream.”   
  
“Or what? You'll kill me?” He flaps a hand at the commander, dismissive. “Megatron has tried. Megatron failed. And then you'll have accomplished nothing.”   
  
Onslaught's engine growls a warning.   
  
“That's what I thought.” Starscream shoves several pieces of artfully placed debris aside before he can push open the door, allowing them entrance to the dusty laboratory. “After you.”   
  
Onslaught's visor gleams a baleful crimson at him, but the massive commander chooses to listen, preceding Starscream into the dark room. He follows, flicking the panel to activate the lights.   
  
“There's power here?” Onslaught demands.   
  
“There's so much more,” Starscream purrs and moves past him, down the narrow corridor to a more open room. “Here, Onslaught, is what I promised you.”   
  
That visor dims in thought as Onslaught follows him and stares at the equipment around the room. Of course, as nothing resembling a scientist, Onslaught can't understand what it's all for. But the five empty protoforms lined against the wall should give him a clue.   
  
“These...?”  
  
“Are what I can use to restore your dearly departed gestalt mates,” Starscream fills in for him. “All I need is a sample of their CNA and enough energon to power the process.”  
  
Onslaught stares at the protoforms, his hands forming slow fists. “What we need, then, is the energon.”   
  
“There's more than enough aboard Megatron's warship.” Starscream makes a gesture toward the sky above them. “Alas, what I lack is the means to take it from him.”   
  
Silence descends and Starscream watches as Onslaught stares at the protoforms, the calculations churning in that tactical processor of his. The precursor, Starscream knows, to the expensive prototype that is the signature of Prime's second in command.   
  
“Very well,” Onslaught says at length. “You've proven your point.”   
  
Starscream smirks. He suspects he'll have no more insubordination from any of his team.   
  
“But how do you plan on retaking the Nemesis and acquiring the energon?” Onslaught asks. “We are outnumbered, underfueled, and short on armament.”   
  
“I have a plan,” Starscream says, inclining his helm. “And if you follow me back to the bridge, I'll be happy to explain the particulars.”   
  


***


	14. Chapter 14

Ratchet has spent three years on Earth. He's had nothing but time. And while he'd kept himself busy building everything they'd need to survive, he'd also been curious.   
  
He hates Earth, but he's also curious.   
  
He's spent a lot of time on the internet. And right now, he can't help but compare this to what human females endure. There's little similarity, Ratchet thinks, except for the burning desire to kill his partner.   
  
“I blame you,” Ratchet growls as he sits on the berth, one hand pressed to his jittering chestplates. The phrase supernova comes to mind.   
  
Sunstreaker hovers nearby, but he's stopped trying to offer comfort. A wise decision. The last time he'd stroked down Ratchet's back, he'd gotten an elbow to the faceplate. Which is now swollen.   
  
There will be time to fix it later.   
  
First Aid comes back into Ratchet's periphery, armed with a scanner. “Your core temperature has spiked another fifteen percent,” he observes.   
  
“I'm aware. How's the frame?”   
  
“Perfection,” Perceptor chimes in from across the room, leaning back from where he's been examining the protoform on a molecular level. “I detect nothing that may cause abnormality or failure.”   
  
Sunstreaker grips the berth with a creak. “Failure?”   
  
“It's a protoform made of spare parts, Sunstreaker. And a spark might reject one with abnormalities,” Ratchet groans. He should know. He's seen it before, not from spark-splitting, but from the Allspark.   
  
“There's always a risk,” First Aid comments as he continues to monitor Ratchet's vital systems. “I'm ready when you are, Ratchet.”   
  
Thank Primus.   
  
Ratchet cycles a ventilation and winces when an energy spike lashes at his spark chamber. There's not much more of this he can take.   
  
“Bring him closer,” Ratchet grits out as he slides off the berth and uses it to prop himself up.   
  
Metal wheels creak as they roll the berth closer, within reach of Ratchet. It's cramped in the makeshift bay and this makes it even more so, but Ratchet would have rather have too many hands than too few. This is the second most dangerous part of the fostering process.   
  
Sunstreaker inches closer and slides between Ratchet and the berth, offering himself as a pillow. His proximity is soothing, a calm to the restless spark energy within Ratchet, and matching himself to his mate's ventilations helps calm the anxious flutters within.   
  
It's time.   
  
Ratchet steadies himself and triggers his chestplates to part. Relief surges through his frame as the pressure eases. Ratchet sags against Sunstreaker as the crackling energy lights the medbay. He can see his spark trying to spill from his chest.   
  
He works his intake and tries to focus. The hard part is not in the letting go, but allowing himself to do so. He's had to hold back, keep the extra energy cycling endlessly. And now, he has to let science do its work.   
  
Sunstreaker grabs his right hand, interlocking their fingers. His engine is a steady thrum against Ratchet's back. Their bond pulses with love.   
  
First Aid hovers nearby, scanner in hand. Perceptor stands on Ratchet's other side, ready to assist. All that's left is to concentrate.   
  
Ratchet offlines his optics, cuts his access to his periphery systems, and feels for his spark. The energy is exponential, spilling from his chamber, his systems engorged and fit to burst. His ventilations stutter. He braces himself.   
  
The pain that hits is as much mental as it is physical. His spark carries no sensors, nothing to transmit pain, but the very act of rending is painful. The agony resonates through Ratchet's frame, translated to every sensor that knows to register pain. Ratchet feels himself tense up, his hydraulics seizing, and the distant pulling sensation of his spark spilling from his frame is as frightening as it is necessary.   
  
Across their bond, Sunstreaker becomes alarmed. He hadn't borne witness to this with Knock Out. He doesn't know what to expect.   
  
A mech's spark belongs in his frame, not the energy spilling out into the open air, crackling and spitting with discharge. The scent of charged plasma fills Ratchet's olfactory sensors.  
  
Something pulls at him, from the outside. Like the pull of a magnet on metal. And Ratchet feels the first tendrils begin to part. The seam that starts not on the edges, but in the very core of his spark.   
  
It's not an even split. There's a fissure on the outer third of the dense mass that is his spark core. He feels it pull away, following the pull of the excess energy. There's a chill that sets in, where the highest heat drains away. There's something, an awareness perhaps, something visceral and beyond explanation.   
  
Ratchet hears it as much as he sees it, the snap of spark energy, the final severance. His frame jerks. His spark feels as if it ignites and he groans, his core fluttering madly in the wake of the loss. The corona flares and floods inward, as if to seal the breach.   
  
His frame reports that his spark capacity is diminished. It sends error messages, old coding clashing with new. He's fine, but his coding doesn't know that. It reacts as all emergency systems are supposed to do.   
  
His chestplates snap closed, severing the lingering connection between himself and the newspark, leaving it alone in the cold world. Not that he is alone for long because the frame is there, open and ready.   
  
Ratchet forces his optics to online. He senses, peripherally, Sunstreaker's hand in his. He follows the dancing, spinning ball of energy in Perceptor's hand. Last time, it had been Jazz to guide the newspark, with First Aid ensuring proper placement.   
  
The newspark fills the empty spark chamber, questing bursts of energy taste the confines. The chamber is the only newforged organ within the frame, Ratchet knows. It has never known the feel of another frame. It is all he could afford to newforge with their limited supplies, but if this is to work....  
  
The first flush of spark energy hits the newframe. First Aid makes a startled noise, his scanner beeping a symphony, and then the newframe's chamber irises shut. The chestplates reshuffle themselves, protecting the fragile newspark within its new chamber. And a tentative, nascent energy field quests into the room.   
  
Ratchet's joy overwhelms him.   
  
“The newspark's accepted the frame,” First Aid announces, his optics alighting with victory.   
  
Sunstreaker's grip nearly dents Ratchet's hand. Together, they stagger toward their youngling, their hands on his frame, warm as fluids begin to cycle, as ventilations begin their first breath.   
  
“He's beautiful,” Sunstreaker murmurs, an ache in his vocals that he would have never admitted before.   
  
“That he is,” Perceptor agrees. “What's his name?”   
  
Ratchet shares a look with Sunstreaker. They had debated for many long hours over this. But last time had been Sunstreaker's choice. This time, he had bowed to Ratchet's wishes, though still pleased.   
  
Ratchet takes his youngling's hand in his free one, ignoring the demands of his frame for recharge and energon and a merge.   
  
“Tracks.”   
  


o0o0o

  
  
The signal is getting stronger which means he's getting close.   
  
Knock Out curses subvocally as he splashes through yet another muddy puddle. Frag this organic planet! He cannot wait until Megatron ends this fruitless pursuit and returns them to Cybertron, no matter it's current state.   
  
His transmitter beeps. Knock Out narrows his optics and steps out of the close stand of trees and into a clearing. The air scents of ash and smoke. And death.   
  
He shudders as he steps carefully around organic remains, rotting in the open air. They can't turn to dust like Cybertronians, no. They must leave behind a foul odor.   
  
Something has happened here, he realizes. Not the Autobots. They wouldn't have attacked humans. And Knock Out hasn't been privy to any Decepticon attacks either. But someone has been here before him. Someone had destroyed these humans and their base of operations.   
  
Someone had burned down the warehouse. Knock Out tucks the transmitter into his arm and gets closer. Breakdown's signal had lead him here, to the burnt husk of a building, dark with ash and charred wood.   
  
Knock Out shoves aside large pieces of debris and starts to dig. He laments the damage to his paint job, but he's due a trip to the washracks anyway. The rain had made sure of that.   
  
“You're not going to find what you're looking for.”   
  
Knock Out stiffens, his plating clamping tight at the familiar voice. He narrows his optics and turns slowly, palming his energon prod. “Is there something I can help you with, Starscream?”   
  
The Seeker smirks at him, across crossed over his chestplate. “I think you're the one in need of assistance, Doctor,” he purrs. “Lose something?”   
  
He glares at Starscream, under no illusions because if it came down to a fight, Knock Out would lose. They may be of a height and mass, relatively speaking, but Starscream has vorns of experience on him.   
  
“What do you want?” Knock Out demands, fingers tightening around his prod. He could summon a ground bridge but his list of allies on the Nemesis is frightfully short. And he has no interest in another Soundwave interrogation.   
  
“Why to help of course.” Starscream grins and comes closer, clasping his hands behind his back. “I wouldn't want your plating to meet an ill fate. Anymore than it already has at least.”   
  
Knock Out's engine revs. “Get to the point.”   
  
“Breakdown is dead.”   
  
“I know that!” He snarls, shoving his way free of the debris. “So is this the part where you tell me you ripped out his spark?”   
  
“He owed me a favor. I wouldn't have wasted such a valuable resource.” Starscream looks down his olfactory sensory at Knock Out, not a twitch to be found in the normally coward of a Seeker. “Airachnid killed him and the humans wanted to play with the leftovers. I rescued him from that fate. If anyone is to blame, it's Megatron.”   
  
Knock Out cycles a ventilation. “Starscream, what in the fragging Pits do you want? Because I know you didn't come here just to be nice.”   
  
“My dear Knock Out. I am always nice.” Starscream's purr might have been attractive, once upon a time. “But you're right. I did have another purpose.”   
  
“And?”   
  
Starscream moves closer, his vocals dropping in volume. “I'm sure it hasn't escaped your notice that I am no longer within Megatron's confidence.”   
  
“Yes. We all weep for your absence,” Knock Out says with as much insincerity as he can muster.   
  
Starscream waves it off. “You can't tell me that you're all that loyal to our leader either.”  
  
Knock Out's optics narrow. “Are you asking me to defect?”   
  
“Was it that obvious?”   
  
Knock Out huffs his disbelief. “You want me to join you and what army? I've yet to see you rebel against Megatron and succeed, Starscream. I'm not risking my spark to leave the winning team.”   
  
“Except that he's not the winning team.” Starscream tilts his helm to the side. “Because if he was, Optimus Prime would be dead and not warming your commander's berth.”  
  
“He doesn't have to kill the Prime to win the war.”   
  
Starscream spreads his hands. “Not much of a war is it? We don't even know what we're fighting for.”   
  
Knock Out presses his lipplates together. True he holds no loyalty to Megatron. But he also has no faith in Starscream either. With Breakdown gone, he has only one truth that keeps him going: the will to survive.   
  
“I don't need an answer right now,” Starscream continues. “I only wanted you to know that the offer is out there. We could use a medic of your caliber. And if you want to survive, you'll consider it.”   
  
Knock Out's optics narrow. “I'll be sure to keep it in mind.”   
  
“That's all I ask.” Starscream executes an exaggerated bow and then leaps into the air, transforming midway and blasting off into the night.   
  
Knock Out sighs and collapses his energon prod. Starscream is not wrong, he admits. But the idea of joining with the notoriously treacherous Seeker doesn't sit well with him either.   
  
Frag it all to the Pits.   
  
“Knock Out!”   
  
He startles as Megatron's snarl reverberates through his audials. He whirls around, half-expecting to find the Decepticon warlord standing behind him, ready to offline Knock Out for his lack of loyalty. Of course, there's no one there because the shout had come across his comm, but one can't be too careful with Megatron.   
  
“Yes, my lord?” he responds, his vocalizer more shaky than he would have liked.   
  
“I don't know where you are and I don't care but if I don't see you in my medbay in less than ten kliks you will learn why I do not like to be kept waiting, am I clear?”   
  
“Crystal.” Knock Out works his intake. “If you but send for a ground bridge, I'll be there at once.”   
  
“You had better.” The comm ends with a click that sounds far more menacing then a simple sound should.   
  
Clearly Megatron has not quite gotten over his berthmate's second betrayal. Orion Pax has found his current home in the brig and Knock Out wonders how long that will last before Megatron's patience runs out.   
  
Or the Autobots succeed in their quest to retrieve their leader.   
  
Knock Out cycles a ventilation as a ground bridge opens near to him – no doubt thanks to Soundwave – and he steps through it, onto the upper landing strip of the Nemesis. Up here, the wind cuts a bitter swath through the gaps in his plating. He fights off a shiver.   
  
Megatron, Soundwave, and Dreadwing are present, though it is only the first that turns to acknowledge his presence. Being the focus of that baleful stare will never cease to be unnerving.   
  
“Can I be of assistance?” Knock Out asks and hopes that now is not the time for a Soundwave interrogation. He did well enough to block out knowledge of his genitors. Concealing a conversation with Starscream is a different matter entirely.   
  
“We shall see.” Megatron gives him a long look before returning his attention to his third in command. “We are expecting reinforcements shortly. They may need your expertise.”   
  
“Reinforcements?”   
  
Dreadwing shifts his weight and points to the sky. “There.”   
  
Knock Out follows his line of sight, peering into the clouds as a shuttle comes into view, aiming for the Nemesis. It is small, probably only large enough to carry three or four mechs. But there's no mistaking the Decepticon design of it. Or...  
  
Knock Out peers closer.   
  
No. The shuttle is not Decepticon in design. It is a Decepticon itself. Their transport is a sparked shuttle, most likely a triple-changer.   
  
Starscream has no idea what he's up against.   
  
The shuttle lands with a slight bump and disgorges it's passengers with little fanfare.  
  
There are three others, two grounders and one that is flight-capable, though Knock Out can't tell his alt-mode. Knock Out doesn't recognize any of them, not that he's familiar with all of the Decepticons. He and Breakdown had kept to themselves. It was easier that way.   
  
“Lord Megatron,” the large flyer rumbles, genuflecting before anyone else can speak. “We are honored to grace your presence.”   
  
Knock Out arches an orbital ridge. Is he serious?  
  
“Welcome Lugnut,” Megatron replies, clearly recognizing the new arrival. “Your presence here is quite fortuitous.”   
  
Lugnut beams in a manner that's more than a little disconcerting. He gestures to the others with him. “This is Barricade and his teammate, Groundhog, a medic. Our transport is Astrotrain.”   
  
“And I'm carrying some rather irritating cargo so if you don't mind ceasing your chatter and extricating him from my hold, I'll be delighted to meet you,” the shuttle growls, his tone on the sharper edge of disrespect.   
  
Megatron tilts his helm. “Cargo?”   
  
Barricade flashes a grin of sharpened denta. “We caught ourselves an Autobot.”  
  
“Here?” Knock Out asks.   
  
“No. Elsewhere. At the Iacon Archives,” Groundhog fills in, his vocals raspy as though his vocalizer has been damaged.   
  
“The Archives,” Megatron murmurs, and his optics flash. “Then he is more useful online. Bring him out, Astrotrain.”   
  
“Gladly.” The shuttle gives a great shudder, performs an awkward half-transformation, and spits out a blue and white Autobot before he finishes shifting to his primary mode. His plating rattles as though relieved to be free.   
  
He is the tallest mech Knock Out has ever met. He is helms above Dreadwing and Megatron, though still smaller than he should be considering his size. It must burn a lot of energon to subspace that much mass.  
  
The Autobot groans and rolls to his aft, wrists cuffed behind him. His optics flicker. “You are the absolute worst hosts I have ever...” He trails off when he notices his audience. “Um. Please tell me I'm not on the Decepticon warship.”  
  
Megatron chuckles and crouches, tilting his helm as he regards the small bot. “You are, my friend. And you are in the unique position of being able to assist me.”  
  
Blue optics cycle. “You want me to... help you?”   
  
“I do.” Megatron's purr is the tone that won him the loyalty of an army. “What's your name, little mech?”   
  
The Autobot works his intake, optics darting around, looking for an escape that doesn't exist. “Smokescreen.”   
  
Someone, somewhere, must have taught the Autobot the value of survival.   
  
Megatron's grin is no less terrifying for it's sincerity. “Welcome to my warship, Smokescreen.”  
  
Said the turbofox to the glitchmouse.   
  
Knock Out cycles a ventilation. He can't see how this is going to end well. For anyone.   
  


o0o0o

  
  
Orion onlines from a brief recharge to find that he's no longer alone. The cell opposite his is now occupied by a mostly white mech with door panels and blue accents. He bears the Autobot brand, which explains his presence in the brig.   
  
Orion pushes to his pedes and gets closer to the bars. They fizzle at him in warning, but he's careful to keep a safe distance. The other mech looks up at the sound of his pedesteps, his optics dim as though underfueled. He doesn't appear otherwise undamaged.   
  
“Are you all right?” Orion asks. He doesn't remember this mech as being one of the ones he had glimpsed back in the cavern before leaving with Megatron.   
  
The mech unfurls and stands, rolling his shoulders and flicking sensory panels as though stretching his joints. He is Praxian? “Well, I'm in Megatron's brig and I'm still alive. That counts for something.”   
  
His wry tone is a relief. That he can make light of the situation speaks well for his physical health. Orion smiles despite himself.   
  
“How long have you been on Earth?”   
  
“Is that where we are?” The mech ruffles his plating, but his wrists are cuffed in front of him, limited his movement. His optics trace the boundaries of his cell. “I wasn't captured here.”   
  
Orion tilts his helm. “Cybertron?”   
  
“Probably.” He shrugs. “I was guarding the Iacon Hall of Records when the war hit overload. Then something hit me from behind. I woke up in a Decepticon brig.”   
  
“The Hall of Records,” Orion murmurs to himself. How curious and coincidental. “Did you know Alpha Trion?”   
  
The mech grins. “I was supposed to guard him. Hope he's all right. What about you?”   
  
“Me?” Orion cycles a ventilation and touches the Decepticon brand on his right shoulder. “I am afraid I made the mistake of displeasing Megatron.”   
  
“Yeah?” The mech's optics brighten by fractions as he peers through the bars at Orion. “Anyone ever tell you that you look like Optimus Prime?”   
  
“Rather frequently as of late. My name is Orion Pax.”   
  
The mech's mouth forms a moue of confusion, his optical ridges drawing down. “But... Optimus Prime was Orion Pax. Alpha Trion told me so himself.”   
  
The dread in his tanks coils into something continuously unpleasant. This mech would have no reason to lie to Orion, unless perhaps he allowed himself to be captured for some nefarious Autobot plan...   
  
“So I have come to suspect,” Orion admits with a sigh. “And who are you, my young friend.”   
  
He lifts his hands in a cuffed greeting. “Smokescreen.”  
  
Orion gestures to his own chestplate in lieu of a handshake. “For what it's worth, Smokescreen, it's nice to meet you.”   
  
Smokescreen offers a half-smile. “Same here.”  
  


o0o0o

  
  
“This is the medbay,” Knock Out says as the door opens and he strides inside, assuming that Ground Hog follows behind. “It is currently fully stocked and equipped with all the latest tech.”   
  
Ground Hog scans the room, his expression hidden behind his visor. “It appears adequate,” he comments and examines Knock Out's array of scanners. “Are you supplied for upgrades?”   
  
Knock Out grins and activates his equipment screen. “Only the latest in offensive and defensive measures. I am something of a connoisseur.”  
  
“Then we should get along just fine. Maintenance schedule?”   
  
Knock Out winces. “We've fallen a little behind. My assistant is... no longer with us. And there are enough drones that I am short on time.”   
  
Ground Hog picks up a scanner and inspects. “Lucky I arrived then. I'll get right on those.”   
  
“There's no rush.”   
  
Ground Hog's visor dims. “Maintenance is important. And I've seen what these mechs are equipped with. All are due an upgrade.”   
  
“Everyone is functional.” Knock Out plants his hands on his hips, glaring at the medic. “And unnecessary upgrades will put a portion of Lord Megatron's army out of commission which he will not approve.”   
  
“He will once I present him with a plan of action.” Ground Hog smirks and sets the scanner down.   
  
Knock Out's frown deepens. For a moment there, he thought Ground Hog would make an adequate partner in crime.   
  
“Until Lord Megatron says otherwise, this is my medbay,” Knock Out insists. “Any changes you want to make will go through me.”   
  
Ground Hog lipplates curl into a low smirk as he rolls his shoulder fairings. “Sure, boss. Whatever you say.”   
  
Dread curls in Knock Out's spark like an upset in his tanks.   
  
Ground Hog spreads his hands before pressing one to the brand on his chestplate. “So. What would you have me do?”   


o0o0o

  
  
When the console beeps the indication of an incoming message, Perceptor's spark leaps in his chestplate. He hopes, desperately, that it is Starscream, if only for a chance to see the Seeker again, reassure himself that Starscream still lives.   
  
Instead, the ident code belongs to Jazz with an encrypted communication. It's not a real-time comm, but a message embedded in a signal. Something that has either been hastily transmitted in a spare moment, or purposefully embedded because Jazz fears he may be compromised. Either options do not spell well.   
  
Perceptor is on his pedes, sending out a call for Prowl and Ratchet and everyone he considers a top priority, before he even finishes reading what Jazz has sent to them. He marks his comm 'urgent' as Jazz had, and he grips the console with trembling fingers, staring at their carefully crafted plan which is now useless.   
  
Prowl is the first to arrive, partly because Perceptor is convinced their stand-in leader does not recharge, despite Mirage's best efforts. “What is it?”   
  
“Jazz,” Perceptor replies, and steps aside. “We have a problem.”   
  
Prowl moves beside him, lips moving as he reads Jazz's message, his energy field betraying his shock and agitation before he reins it in. “This complicates matters.”   
  
“To put it lightly,” Perceptor agrees, his tone tight.   
  
The others arrive in fits and bursts, stretching the recharge from their frames, or shaking off the dust of patrol. It's a tight fit, until the only ones not present are Sunstreaker and Tracks, probably because the youngling can't afford to lose recharge. Not while he's still processing all of the data they've given him to upload.   
  
“What's going on?” Bulkhead asks, the first to speak.   
  
Perceptor lapses into silence, letting Prowl take the lead.   
  
“Jazz has made contact,” Prowl explains, his vocals tight, betraying his unease. “Optimus has been brigged for refusing to cooperate and Megatron has acquired someone else to do his dirty work. An Autobot by the name of Smokescreen.”   
  
There's a low murmur amongst the Autobots but no one claims to recognize the designation. Which is unsurprising.   
  
“It's only a matter of time before Smokescreen either gives in and does as Megatron asks, or refuses and bears the brunt of Megatron's wrath,” Prowl adds.   
  
“What about Optimus?” Arcee demands, ever the aggressor.   
  
Prowl shakes his helm. “Jazz doesn't know. Megatron is as unpredictable as ever. He could continue to allow Optimus to live, or in a fit of rage, decide Optimus is no longer worth the effort.”   
  
“Then we're out of time. We have to get Optimus back now,” Ratchet insists, looking remarkably spry for someone who had split his spark less than a few days past. “Megatron's been trying to kill Optimus for centuries for a perceived betrayal. How long until he kills Orion for refusing him?”   
  
“And just how are we supposed to do that?” Mirage demands, making a vague gesture to the sky above them. “We don't know where the Nemesis is.”   
  
“No, we don't,” Perceptor says, and he folds his arms, one hand gripping his armor. “But we know someone who might.”   
  
Arcee tilts her helm, optics narrowed. “Starscream.”   
  
“He's helped us once before. He might do so again,” Perceptor says.   
  
Sideswipe snorts a ventilation. “Out of the kindness of his spark, you think? Percy, have you lost your processor on this planet or something?”   
  
“Perceptor has a point. All we have to do is offer Starscream something he can't refuse,” Mirage says, looking thoughtful.   
  
“And what is it you think he wants?” Ratchet scoffs. “Starscream contradicts himself. We can't figure out if he hates Megatron or wants to berth him.”   
  
Wheeljack rakes a hand over his helm. “The two aren't necessarily disparate.” He rolls his shoulders in an offhand shrug when half the Autobots stare at him. “I'm just saying, you can hate someone and want to frag them into the floor, too.”   
  
Prowl waves a dismissive hand. “Starscream's berth habits are beside the point. Last time, he wanted medical aid. What can we offer him this time?”   
  
“The chance to kill Megatron, but this time, he won't be making the attempt alone,” Ratchet says with slow realization.   
  
Arcee stares at their chief medic. “You want to form an alliance with Starscream?”   
  
“If our goals align, then why not?” Mirage muses aloud. “He helps us find the Nemesis, we help him destroy Megatron, and we get Optimus back. It could be more than just saving Optimus. It could mean the end of the war.”   
  
“It would mean trading one warlord for another,” Arcee snarls.   
  
“Starscream can be reasoned with. If there's one thing he's very skilled at, it's maintaining his self-interest.” Prowl turns toward the console, fingers flying across the keys as he calculates something he's yet to share. “We can negotiate with him.”   
  
“I can't believe you're even considering this!”   
  
“I can,” Ratchet says, and he pushes forward, closer to the console, as though physically wanting to show his support for Prowl. “Because I'm fragging tired of fighting. I'm tired of this planet. I want to go home. And if forming a truce with Starscream means we can go back and Tracks can see his real home, then I'll do it.”   
  
Arcee's optics flash. “He killed Cliffjumper!”   
  
“And we killed countless Decepticons in return,” Ratchet argues, his ventilations going ragged. “Including Starscream's brother. We bombed Vos, not the Decepticons. And we destroyed Tarn. There's not a single mech in this war who hasn't lost someone. And if we don't look past that, we'll all keep on fighting until we die. And I'm not going to do that. Not anymore.” He draws in a heavy ventilation, plating clamped tight to his frame. “I would shake hands with Unicron himself if it meant we would all stop killing each other!”   
  
Perceptor's optics widen. And he is not the only one shocked to silence. Sideswipe stares at Ratchet as though he's never seen the medic before. Arcee visibly backpedals.   
  
“Ratchet is right,” Prowl says, at length.   
  
Mirage steps forward. “Prowl--”  
  
He holds up a hand, silencing his bondmate. “No. Ratchet is right. We have fought for countless millennia. We have destroyed our planet. We are so few that I despair to think we are close to extinction. We are blackmarked by the rest of the universe. We have no future. So yes, Ratchet is right.”  
  
Perceptor works his intake. “I am not at all averse to peace,” he offers quietly. “But how are we going to contact Starscream in the first place?”   
  
“The same way he contacted us,” Prowl says, and the monitors flash, displaying the fruits of his labor.   
  
He's been composing a message to Starscream.   
  
“A high frequency embedded communication,” Perceptor murmurs.   
  
“And what's to stop Megatron from picking it up?” Arcee demands. “It's extending an invitation for him to appear and blast us all to the Pit!”   
  
“We're going to have to be smart about it.” Mirage moves to his bondmate's side, taking over the encryption. He offers Prowl a smile. “I'm tired of fighting, too.”   
  
This is going to work, Perceptor thinks with an almost giddy burst of his spark. This is going to work.   
  


***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: There is plot movement. We are rocking and rolling! Also, show of hands, who guessed it would be Tracks? ;)
> 
> As always, feedback is welcome and appreciated.


	15. Chapter 15

Thundercracker wakes him from recharge with the message, picked up from a higher frequency than Megatron tends to recognize. Soundwave might find it, if he's bored and randomly shuffling through the comm waves, but Starscream doubts it. They have more important things to worry about.   
  
The Autobots want to meet. They want to make a deal. They want to discuss ridding the universe of the scourge that is Megatron.   
  
“You see,” Starscream purrs as he hands Thundercracker back the datapad. “Goods things do come to those who wait.”   
  
“You're going to take the meeting?”   
  
“Of course I am.” Starscream precedes Thundercracker out of his makeshift berthroom and leads him back to what they are calling their command center. “I've learned the value of cooperation. And they would serve well as distractions when it comes time to take Megatron down.”   
  
“Then you're going to betray them.”   
  
“Betray is such a strong word.” Starscream's wings twitch, betraying his glee. “For now, we seem to want the same things.”  
  
He feels more than sees Thundercracker's frown. “I didn't come here to befriend Autobots.”   
  
“No.” Starscream pauses and turns to look his trine-mate in the optic, though he makes no attempt to touch the shriveled bond they once shared. “You came here to see an end to the war while we still had a population left to save.”   
  
Thundercracker stares at him. “And you honestly think we plus a handful of Autobots are enough to take down Megatron?”   
  
Starscream smirks. “Yes.” It helps, he thinks, that they may just have a trump card somewhere in the wilderness. If he can make contact, than they will have an ace up their sleeve, that no one, not even Megatron, will expect.   
  
“And I thought Skywarp was a moron.” Thundercracker huffs a ventilation and pushes past Starscream without breaking stride. “Let's get this over with.”   
  
By the time they arrive in the control room, Onslaught and Blast Off are already present. Starscream suspects Thundercracker had called them the moment he detected the message. An unfortunate consequence of this being less than a dictatorship and more of a democracy. Well, needs must.   
  
“Is this part of the plan?” Onslaught demands.   
  
“I always suspected we would need the Autobot's assistance,” Starscream answers as he moves to the monitor to compose a confirmation. “Though I assumed it would be us begging the favor. All the better that they came to me first.”   
  
“You don't think they'll be suspicious when you show up with allies?”   
  
Starscream shrugs. “They may be angry that I lied but then again... I am who I am.”   
  
Thundercracker snorts a ventilation. “That you are. What about this trump card?”   
  
Starscream presses a button to send the message and then pulls up another image, one alongside their continuous attempts to locate the Autobot base. Something that may prove to be unnecessary.   
  
“Airachnid.”   
  
Onslaught hisses a ventilation. “That techno-organic freak? What would we need with her?”   
  
“She has her uses.” Starscream chuckles to himself. “And she's fallen out of favor with Megatron. She can't leave Earth, not since the human destroyed her ship, so if she wants to get off this planet, she has few choices.”   
  
“She is one femme against an army of Vehicons and Eradicons,” Blast Off rumbles. “What use is she?”   
  
“We'll find out,” Starscream replies and sends off the communication.   
  
Now, to find himself a spider.   
  


0o0o0

  
  
There's no point in continuing this farce, Knock Out thinks. So why is he still the one charged with making sure Orion Pax aka Optimus Prime is fully fueled and functional?  
  
Megatron's tossed his berthwarmer into the brig as though he is attempting to forget his prisoner exists, but Knock Out has still been tasked with keeping him properly maintained. The war could be over in a flash if Megatron would only do the one thing he refuses to do. For all that he claims to hate Optimus Prime, he has yet to strike the final blow.   
  
“ _Methinks someone doth protest too much_ ,” Knock Out mutters to himself and then rolls his optics. Clearly, he's been spending too much time on the human internet. He's absorbed far more of their culture than he ever intended.   
  
Knock Out strolls into the Nemesis' brig, now occupied by two Autobots, though he's not here for the new arrival. That one is Ricochet's responsibility.   
  
Orion Pax is sitting on the floor, arms resting over his drawn out knees, his optics dim as though deep in thought. He doesn't notice Knock Out's arrival, which is positively criminal, so Knock Out cycles his vocalizer to get the Prime's attention.   
  
“Time to refuel,” he says, watching as the once Prime unfolds his long limbs and rises to his pedes, exhibiting a grace that has probably been trained into him by this point.   
  
“I would have thought Lord Megatron would revoke my refueling rights,” Orion says as Knock Out keys open a small portion of the bars to hand Orion his cube.   
  
Knock Out rolls his shoulders. “Guess he has a soft spot for you.” He looks Orion over, noticing that dents and scuffs that had resulted from his moment of rebellion. “And he'd be ecstatic if you changed your mind.”   
  
“About?”   
  
“Decrypting the Iacon Database.” And returning to his berth, though Knock Out is prudent not to add the last part. He might find himself without a spark, courtesy of Lord Megatron. He's not one to let his weaknesses show.   
  
Orion finishes the cube and hands it back to Knock Out. “No.” He steps back from the bars, making no attempt to escape as any proper Decepticon would. “I will not allow my skills to be put to Megatron's questionable use.”   
  
“If you say so.” Knock Out shrugs and turns to leave.   
  
“Why do you follow him?”   
  
He pauses, half-turning back toward the brig. “What?”   
  
Orion is watching him now, with a gaze that reminds Knock Out of Optimus Prime. “Why did you become a Decepticon?”   
  
The frag? Since when is Orion getting personal? Or is he looking for an answer for himself?   
  
He smirks. “I wanted to be on the winning team.”   
  
Orion inclines his helm. “You're not loyal to Megatron then, but yourself.”   
  
“If you want to put it that way...” Knock Out narrows his optics. “What does it matter to you?”   
  
“It doesn't.” Orion lowers himself to his bunk, but his gaze never leaves Knock Out's. “I merely believe there is more to you than that.”   
  
“Hah. That's why you're in there and I'm out here.” Knock Out flicks a hand in dismissal. “And if I were you, I'd seriously consider how loyal I was to a bunch of mechs I don't even know.”   
  
Orion says nothing further and Knock Out leaves the brig as fast as his pedes can carry him. He doesn't spare the other prisoner a glance though he had felt the curious optics watching him.   
  
Maybe he can convince Ricochet to take over Orion as well. That creepy mech is always looking for some reason to impress.   
  
Knock Out steps out of the brig, unable to shake the sensation of Orion watching him. He shakes his helm and activates his comm. Surely Ricochet will agree.   
  


0o0o0

  
  
The location Starscream selects is disturbingly close to their base, Prowl notices with a frown. He wonders if it is by accident or design. Knowing Starscream, it is probably the latter. He's making a statement, perhaps implying that he knows where the Autobots have made their berth.   
  
They may have to move. Though he doesn't think Agent Fowler will be all that receptive, it may be the only choice they have. If Starscream knows, the chance of Megatron finding out doubles. And this they can't afford.   
  
Starscream had allowed him two other Autobots, should he think he needed the backup. Buried in that graciousness is a sly dig at Prowl's courage and self-pride. But he's not too proud to admit that he doesn't trust Starscream and will bring up as many Autobots as he can spare.   
  
Ratchet had argued to come. He'd been vetoed by everyone short of Miko before Prowl could form so much as a logical refusal.   
  
Perceptor volunteered to take his place. Prowl had reluctantly agreed. He knows their history, Starscream and Perceptor, but if there's an inkling of good to be found in the treacherous Seeker, perhaps Perceptor is the one who can draw it out.   
  
Bluestreak, too, is here, twitchy as his modified optics scan the underbrush for a possible ambush. He's been more skittish as of late, a behavior Prowl blames on Jazz's absence. As much as he disapproved of their relationship, they were good for each other.   
  
Except for times like this.   
  
But skittish though Bluestreak may be, there is no mech more alert. It borders on the edge of hyper-vigilance. When it comes to Starscream, that may not be a bad thing.   
  
Somewhere out in the woods is Prowl's mate, concealing himself. He makes no sound and is on radio silence, but he'll be there, should they need.   
  
“Starscream's late,” Bluestreak says, pacing to the other side of Perceptor before he moves back to Prowl's flank.   
  
Prowl narrows his optics, gaze turned upward. “I'm sure he'll arrive precisely when he means to.”   
  
“He does have a penchant for flashy entrances,” Perceptor murmurs and tries to pretend interest in the datapad he's brought along. Of them all, he's the most restless, his plating fluttering over his protoform like feathers in the wind.   
  
“I hear something.” Bluestreak tilts his helm, optics narrowing as he peers at the sky.   
  
Prowl has learned to trust his ward's senses. He follows Bluestreak's gaze, straining his own sensors until he finally picks up on what Bluestreak had heard: engines.   
  
“That doesn't sound like one,” Perceptor says as he tucks away his datapad and gives them an askance look.   
  
“No, it does not. Bluestreak?”   
  
“Yes, sir.” Bluestreak drops to one knee and has his sniper rifle out from one ventilation to the next. He aims, peering through the sights. “You say the word and I'll take them out.”   
  
“Wait.” They can't afford to be shooting humans out of the sky. Prowl has to have confirmation of threat before he can order a dispatch.   
  
They don't have to wait for long. The sound of engines gets closer until two aerial forms come into view, one of them definitely Starscream. The other is similar in design, perhaps a bit bulkier, but with a different paint scheme.   
  
“I thought Starscream was on his own?” Perceptor asks as Prowl gives Bluestreak the signal to stand down.   
  
“That is the lie he fed us,” Prowl replies and he presses his lips together as the two Seekers transform and land twenty feet away, wings twitching as they settle back into place.   
  
“Oh. Am I late?” Starscream asks with a smirk that suggests that he knows just how annoyed he has made the Autobots.   
  
Prowl cycles a ventilation. “You have company.”   
  
“Yes, well, I do have my ways.” Starscream gestures toward his companion. “This is Thundercracker. He's part of my team.”   
  
“You have a team?” Bluestreak asks, his optics rounded with surprise. Small wonder. It shocks Prowl that anyone is willingly following Starscream, especially when their Decepticon brands speak of an allegiance to Megatron.   
  
“He has associates,” Thundercracker corrects with vocals so deep even Bulkhead would be envious.   
  
“Are we here to discuss a daring rescue or what to call my team?” Starscream demands, his tone a bit too testy. Perhaps all is not cohesive within Starscream's camp.   
  
Prowl inclines his helm. “You offered a plan and an opportunity. Now, we need to get aboard the Nemesis but to do that, we need to find it. Can you help us?”   
  
“It depends.” Starscream crosses his arms over his chestplate. “What are you going to offer me?”  
  
Prowl cycles a ventilation and tells himself he is not betraying everything the Autobots stand for. “A truce.”   
  
“Really? How interesting.” Starscream tilts his helm and shares a quick glance with Thundercracker. “What's that worth to me?”   
  
“You can help us stop Megatron,” Perceptor says before Prowl can form any words. His tone is left offer and more pleading. “And then we can all go back to Cybertron.”   
  
Thundercracker huffs a ventilation. “What a prize that is. Have you seen our planet? It's a barren wasteland.”   
  
“We can rebuild,” Perceptor offers, his tone still soft and his gaze focused on Starscream. He doesn't have optics for anyone else. “If we work together.”   
  
Starscream makes a low noise of agreement in his chassis. “A truce,” he repeats as though considering it. “Meaning, we don't shoot you, you don't shoot us, and together, we take down the Nemesis. Or at least depose Megatron. And rescue your poor Prime, I take it.”   
  
“Yes,” Prowl answers. “It's a fair deal. Do you accept?”   
  
Starscream half-turns away from them, his posture casual but the hiked nature of his wings suggesting otherwise. He asks something of his fellow Seeker, inaudible to the waiting Autobots, and they discuss in soft tones.   
  
Perceptor, Prowl notices, watches them with an almost eerie intensity.   
  
“Fine,” Starscream announces as he turns back toward them, a grin on his faceplate. “We accept. Give me some time to make some arrangements and we can storm the Nemesis.”  
  
Prowl frowns. “We have information that suggests too long of a delay would be ill-advised.”   
  
“I need a day, Prowl. Not a year.” Starscream waves a dismissing hand. “Don't contact me. I'll contact you.”   
  
Before he can formulate a response, both Seekers shift to alt-mode and blast into the sky, trees bending in their wake. Prowl cycles a ventilation and palms his faceplate. To say that is regretting this truce is an understatement.   
  
“Do you think he'll come through?” Bluestreak asks, his door panels finally shifting to parade rest rather than high alert.   
  
“I think that Starscream's ambitions outstrip any hatred he might carry for us,” Prowl replies, and he contacts Mirage, letting his bond know to rejoin their team before he calls for a ground bridge. “In the meantime, we have an infiltration to plan.”   
  


0o0o0

  
  
“Papa, I've gots a scratch.”   
  
Ratchet looks up from his scrapped-together console to peer at his youngling. Tracks is currently standing in front of Sunstreaker, holding up his arm and pointing imperiously toward a barely visible mar in his finish. The act is made more comical by the fact Tracks is about Arcee's height, so two-thirds the size of his genitor.   
  
Sunstreaker sighs and dutifully examines the scratch. “Don't listen to Sideswipe. Call me Genitor.”   
  
“I likes Papa better.”   
  
“And reboot your English module.”   
  
Tracks' lipplates form a stubborn moue that makes Ratchet chuckle, though he hides it behind his hand. He knows that look, Primus does he know that look!   
  
“I doesn't need to.” He wiggles his arm in Sunstreaker's hold. “Fixded it!”   
  
A warning rumble vibrates through Sunstreaker's chest. “That sounded like a demand.” He peers at his offspring. “I remember a conversation yesterday about manners.”   
  
Ratchet's vents wheeze as he struggles to hold in his laughter. Sunstreaker? Chastising someone about manners? Dear Primus if only Prowl could see this.   
  
Tracks, suitably chastened, sighs a ventilation. “Sorry.”   
  
“What do you say?”   
  
“Please, Papa.” And he looks up with bright, soulful optics that break down Ratchet's willpower every time.   
  
He swears Sideswipe taught him that.   
  
It works on Sunstreaker, too. Because his authoritative look fizzles to nothing and he pulls out a buffing pad with his free hand and gently attends to his sparkling's arm. “How'd you get scuffed anyway?”   
  
“I think you can blame your brother for that,” Ratchet offers, reminding his mate that he is still here and bearing witness to this moment of epic cuteness. “They were play-wrestling earlier.”   
  
“He was teaching me to fight!” Tracks announces proudly.  
  
Sunstreaker gives Ratchet a sidelong look. “Isn't he too young for that?”   
  
Ratchet shrugs. “Anything to make him tired enough for a nap.” It's the only peace they ever get. Tracks is endlessly curious, and while that isn't unusual, it presents something of a problem when he's large enough to reach anything and everything, especially the items that can do him harm.   
  
After all, this is a military base not a daycare. Tracks requires constant supervision until he processes all of the new stimulus and recognizes what is safe and what is not. At a week-old, he's not fully capable yet.  
  
Sunstreaker sighs but gives his full attention to their youngling. “There. Good as new.”   
  
Tracks beams and throws himself at Sunstreaker for a hug. “Shiny, shiny!”   
  
Ratchet feels a pang of loss as he watches them. Knock Out had been like that. Every time he received the tiniest scuff, he would insist that Sunstreaker fix it for him. He would loudly point out a spot that Sunstreaker had missed. It had become a game between the two of them.   
  
He misses that, misses Knock Out.   
  
Ratchet frowns and tries to turn his attention back to what he's working on. He's tried not to dwell on the mistakes he's made but it's hard when he looks into Tracks' smiling face and remembers Knock Out's smile.   
  
Sunstreaker nudges him across the bond, a pulse of understanding, and Ratchet takes comfort in that.   
  
He still hopes that it's not too late to make amends.   
  


0o0o0

  
  
Finding a femme who doesn't want to be found is no small task. Especially when that femme is Airachnid, known for creeping around in the shadows and stalking her prey. There is little love lost between them, but they have one thing in common – a mutual hatred for Megatron.   
  
Or at least, Airachnid should now considering he tried to offline her with a pair of cronies.   
  
Airachnid could be anywhere on Earth. Starscream knows this. He also knows that it is impossible for her to have left the planet. Spaceships, unfortunately, are in short supply. Starscream's own is sapient; no way she could have acquired Blast Off.   
  
But, sly minds think alike, and so it's back to the warehouse that Starscream returns. He suspects Airachnid wouldn't have gone far. Great hunting grounds, he thinks. And the area is a honeycomb of tunnels and mines.   
  
And, Starscream remembers, there's an old Decepticon mine nearby. The perfect place for a scavenger who is injured and running low in energon to go. Industrious Cybertronians would be able to find the tiny scraps deemed too useless to strip-mine.   
  
Starscream should know. It's what he would have done had he not found the shuttle in the Harbinger and managed the harrowing trip back to Cybertron.   
  
The mines are as dark and dank as any other mine the Decepticons have plundered. Starscream frowns, plating drawing inward. He dislikes mines less because he is a Seeker and more because Megatron tried to offline him in one, and he narrowly escaped being trapped in said mine. The fact that that he's walking into multiple-limbs of danger does not escape him either.   
  
Something skitters in the dark behind him. Starscream's optics narrow but he keeps going. Whether it is Airachnid trailing him or something organic native to this planet, he doesn't know. He subtly tries to scan without looking, but whatever it is, is too fast to pinpoint in the dark.   
  
Something clicks and chitters, echoing in the narrow tunnel. Starscream's plating crawls. That is most definitely not organic. And it's not Airachnid either.   
  
He whirls around, arm raised and missile primed to fire. Something large rises like a darker shadow, still chittering, with an optical band similar to the Vehicons. But it is far too large to be one of those drones.   
  
He's not taking any chances. Starscream fires, the light of the missile briefly filling the tunnel before it explodes in the faceplate of what's stalking him.   
  
An Insecticon?! Here on Earth?!  
  
A grating, high-pitched growl fills the tunnel before the Insecticon shakes off the missile and comes charging toward Starscream.   
  
Time to go.   
  
He turns on a heelstrut, fires another missile for cover, and takes off down the tunnel. Rock rains down on him as it explodes, perhaps finding it's target, perhaps not. Insecticons are not so easy to kill.   
  
He doesn't get far.   
  
Starscream goes down under the weight of something much larger, much sharper, and much more aggressive. He shouts, tries to wriggle out from beneath the Insecticon, but it has more claws than he does.   
  
He flinches, waits for the final blow, thrusters spitting fire.   
  
He waits for a blow that doesn't come. The Insecticon grabs him up as though he's nothing more than a toy, pinning his arms to his sides, and then carries him deeper into he tunnels. Starscream twists and turns, thrusters spitting fire, but the Insecticon's claws are like durybillium manacles.   
  
He's stuck, but he's also not offline. Whether or not this is a good thing remains to be seen. Starscream tries his comm and gets static in return. Lovely.   
  
Something glows up ahead. Starscream squints into the dim, which grows into a large cavern, filled with more chittering and rustling. It's... it's an Insecticon army! What the frag?   
  
“Well, well, well.” The purring vocals drag Starscream's attention to the left where click-click-click of multiple pedes announce Airachnid's arrival. “Look what the bug caught sniffing at my door.”   
  
Starscream snarls. “I demand that this creature put me down at once.”   
  
“Of course,” Airachnid purrs as she performs a minor transformation, spider legs vanishing into bipedal mode.   
  
Starscream squawks as the Insecticon abruptly loosens its grip and he crashes to the stone floor. Of all the... He growls to himself and pushes to his pedes, brushing the grit from his armor.   
  
“Your welcome party leaves much to be desired,” Starscream says, eying the femme warily.   
  
“That's what happens to those who aren't invited.” Airachnid flips a hand at him. “Especially those who are supposed to be dead.”   
  
He folds his arms over his chestplate. “One could say the same thing about you.”   
  
“I'm harder to kill than I look.” Airachnid tilts her helm, optics glowing a baleful purple. “You have one minute to give me a good reason not to let my dear friends tear you limb from limb.”   
  
Around them, the hordes of Insecticons chitter in unison as though agreeing with her. It's creepy, is what it is.   
  
Starscream looks around, unable to count the sheer number of Insecticons. And does he see more pod-like objects in the distance? This is a Unicron-spawned Insecticon nest!  
  
He laughs. “Oh my. Blast Off was wrong about you.”   
  
Airacnhid's optics narrow. “What are you talking about?”   
  
Starscream gestures to the entire breadth of the cave. “You're not one femme. You're a femme with an army.” He pauses to grin. “And I think we both know an effective use for such an army.”   
  
Airachnid's fingers twitch and suddenly a large hand encloses on one of Starscream's wings with just enough pressure to stretch the limits of what he can bear. Warning flashes through his processor and pain ripples through said wing.   
  
“Oh,” Airachnid purrs. “Was that all? You just want me to help depose Megatron.”  
  
“Not precisely.” He winces and looks at the enormous Insecticon hand gripping his wing. This... is not part of the plan. “Though considering our glorious leader has tried to kill both of us, I would have thought a little revenge would be of interest to you.”   
  
“It is. But not when it's attached to you,” Airachnid hisses the latter.   
  
Starscream's wing creaks alarmingly.   
  
“I can find the Nemesis!” he blurts out in a bit of a panic. He needs that wing, frag it. “Which I know you are incapable of doing. And I am in contact with the Autobots.”   
  
The grip eases.   
  
“Really.” Airachnid, unimpressed, strides closer, peering into his faceplate. “You, the mech who would be king, defected?”  
  
He barks a laugh. “No. I am using them for my own ends. As surely as they are using me. Just like you and I can make use of each other. Especially your army.”   
  
“What's in it for me?”   
  
The grip lifts away from his wing and Starscream flicks it out of reach, daring to put some distance between himself and his Insecticon guard. “Transport off Earth to wherever you want. And the pleasure of taking Megatron's spark.”   
  
Airachnid's engine rumbles a low sound of pleasure. “You drive an interesting bargain, Starscream. But how do I know you won't betray me as you are so keen on doing to your lord and master?”   
  
“Because as far as I know, you've never killed anyone I value.” Starscream circles around the pseudo-heliformer. “And together, we can accomplish anything.”   
  
He pauses in front of Airachnid, failing to gauge her field or her expression. He can only guess what she's really thinking.   
  
“Very well,” Airachnid says with a slow curl of her lips. “Tell me what your plan is and I'll tell you whether my friends and I will participate.”   
  
Starscream smirks.   
  
Hook, line and sinker.   
  


0o0o0

  
  
They chat. It is not as though there is anything else to do in the dim and loneliness of the brig.   
  
Smokescreen tells him parts of the war Orion has missed. Orion tells him what he knows of Earth and the war effort here. They become friends, as much as is possible down here, and the only break in their routine is when Ricochet dances down to bring their allotment of energon.   
  
Orion's only worry is for the hour Megatron makes his presence known. He still wants the Iacon Database decrypted and as long as Orion refuses, he'll rely on Smokescreen.   
  
What he doesn't know is that Smokescreen can't. He is a graduate of the Autobot Academy, not a data clerk.   
  
Orion fears that when Megatron returns for Smokescreen and learns that he is not of use, he'll execute the Autobot. Which puts his own refusal in a quandary.   
  
Orion startles at the sound of pedesteps. It is too soon for it to be Ricochet. He dreads to think that Megatron has gathered another Autobot prisoner.   
  
But no. It is Megatron and though he's not alone, Orion recognizes the mechs beside him: Dreadwing and Soundwave. For once, Megatron does not spare Orion a glance, his sole attention focused on Smokescreen, who drags himself off his bench.   
  
“To what do I owe the honor?” Smokescreen asks with a smile that is less confident than he could have hoped.   
  
Dreadwing strides forward and keys open Smokescreen's cell, gesturing the Autobot to exit. “It is time to earn your keep, Autobot.”   
  
“Really?” Smokescreen offers a nervous laugh as he steps out of his cell. “How can I... uh... be of service?”  
  
“We will show you. Come.” Dreadwing slaps a massive hand on Smokescreen's shoulder, nearly toppling him. He pushes the Autobot ahead of him, and Soundwave takes up a position on Smokescreen's other side.   
  
Megatron, however, lingers.   
  
Orion chooses to think it is for a reason. “Did you want to speak to me?” he asks, careful to keep his tone nonthreatening.   
  
“Have you reconsidered your stance?”   
  
“I apologize, but I have not.”   
  
“Then no, Orion, I did not.” Megatron turns to face him, his expression as unreadable as before. “I find it curious that you betray me time and time again.” He stalks closer to the bars, looming without trying. “Primus has cursed me with your presence.”   
  
He cycles a ventilation. “I don't think that is the case.”   
  
“Then fortunately for you, Orion, I do not live or die by your opinion.” Megatron turns away from him, a sharp spike in his field the only betrayal to his inner turmoil.   
  
Orion watches him go. “Smokescreen can't decode the database.”   
  
“You'd better hope you're wrong. Because if he can't, he's of no use to me,” Megatron tosses over his shoulder. And then he's out of sight, leaving Orion alone in the dim dark of the brig.   
  
There's a rattle in his vents, a trembling in his plating. Orion works his intake and retreats to his bunk, sinking down onto it. He stares at his hands – the hands of Optimus Prime if Smokescreen is to be believed – and wonders if he's made the right choice.   
  


****


	16. Chapter 16

The tension base-wide makes Prowl twitch. They are all waiting for the order to strike, to get their Prime back where he belongs, and the fact they are waiting for Starscream, has everyone on edge.   
  
Prowl has done his best to minimize risk. He's sent the humans home, away from base and potential danger. Arcee and Bulkhead are in Jasper, permanent patrol, within a second's response to a call for help should any of the children need their assistance.   
  
Prowl is not taking any chances.   
  
No matter what, Ratchet will remain on base. In the event of something unforeseen, he is to take Tracks and go. As far away from Jasper as his wheels can take him and then further.   
  
He had tried to argue otherwise, and Prowl had almost caved. After all, Ratchet is their chief medical officer. He is probably Optimus' best chance. But First Aid and Perceptor aren't unskilled. If it comes to the point that Ratchet has to flee, saving Optimus may be moot anyway.   
  
Prowl refuses to allow what happened with Knock Out happen to Tracks. He will have at least one parent.   
  
“You always expect the worst,” Mirage murmurs from behind Prowl, his hands working miracles on the kinked cables in Prowl's back.   
  
“It is better to have contingencies in place than be caught unaware,” Prowl replies, offlining his optics to enjoy the sensation. “I know I taught Jazz as much. He should have passed it on to you.”   
  
Mirage's field touches his in affectionate amusement. “Oh, he did. I simply wish that you could have faith in your first tier plan without all this endless worrying.”   
  
“I have faith in my plans,” Prowl corrects. “I do not have faith in variables. Such as Starscream and Airachnid.” Arcee had not been pleased to learn of that particular alliance. Which is why it is all the better she is protecting the children rather than participating in Prime's rescue.   
  
Mirage chuckles. “I don't think anyone can blame you for that.”   
  
The main console chimes an incoming communication. Prowl rouses from his comfortable stupor and agrees to accept the message. It's from that same high-frequency signal as before; no doubt it is Starscream.   
  
“Is it time?” Mirage asks.   
  
“So it would appear.” Prowl answers the communication, Starscream's vocals spilling into the command center.   
  
“It's about time, Autobot,” Starscream says, his vocals edging toward a whine. “Now that you have all your soldiers, I assume you have a plan?”   
  
Prowl bites back a sigh. “I do. Our operative will be implementing a distraction. The moment it goes live, we strike. You supply the coordinates and the Autobots will groundbridge in and handle the Vehicons. You and your allies can strike from above and deal with the Eradicons.”  
  
“It seems fairly straightforward,” Starscream says. “Can I trust that you won't shoot at everyone with a Decepticon badge?”   
  
“We'll be careful. So long as none of your allies shoot any Autobots.”   
  
“We'll do the best we can.” His tone is less than reassuring. “Shall I look for a signal in the sky or will you be letting me know when to attack some other way?”   
  
A signal in the...? Prowl shakes his helm and ignores the reference. “A smart mech such as yourself should be able to figure it out. Prowl, out.”   
  
The comm closes on Starscream's indignant squawk.   
  
Mirage chuckles. “You cut him off on purpose.”   
  
“I don't know what you mean.”   
  


0o0o0

  
  
Knock Out lurches from his stasis nap when the Nemesis rocks around him and sends him careening out of his berth. He hits the floor with a clatter and scrape of metal on metal, gyros reeling.   
  
What in the...?  
  
The ship tosses again and he hits his door helm first, stars dancing behind his optics. The lights in his habsuite go dim only to be replaced by flashing orange ones. A warning spills into the intercom.   
  
The main engine is offline. Which the Nemesis has several auxiliary, smaller engines, enough to keep it stable while they land, but not enough to keep them in the air. They're going down.   
  
It has to be the Autobots.   
  
Knock Out shoves himself to his pedes even as Megatron snarls on all comm channels, all call to arms. The engineers will get the engine up and running, but not before they have to make an emergency landing.   
  
Standard protocol puts Knock Out in the medbay for incoming casualties.   
  
The timing of this can't be coincidental. Starscream's last implications now ring as a warning.   
  
Autobot attack or Starscream? Neither bodes well.   
  
Knock Out heads for the medbay.   
  


0o0o0

  
  
Orion is online when the Nemesis abruptly tilts, nearly sending him tumbling across the floor. He keeps his balance by the wax on his plating, but curiosity abounds, especially when seconds later, emergency lights and warnings fill the brig.   
  
The Nemesis is under attack.   
  
Orion approaches the bars, half-expecting them to have lost power. But they remain as strong as before. If the Nemesis crashes, he may be out of luck.   
  
And then, pedesteps.   
  
Orion draws back, watching the hall. They are too light to be Megatron, too cautious to be Knock Out, but he does recognize their near-stealthy tread.   
  
It is Ricochet.   
  
“My favorite prisoner!” the small Decepticon announces, flinging his arms wide. “You're still here, safe and sound.”   
  
Orion cycles a ventilation. “What is happening?”   
  
Ricochet examines the control panel to the bars. “Oh. A little of this. A little of that. Some tampering. Some exploding.” He presses several buttons in succession and the bars blink out of existence.   
  
Orion stares at the Decepticon. “What are you doing?”   
  
“Uh. Rescuing you?” Ricochet grins and stands in front of the open cell, hands planted on his hips. “Kind of what I'm here for.”   
  
Orion cycles his optics. “I... don't understand.”   
  
“Oh, don't worry.” Ricochet waves a dismissive hand. “It'll all make sense later when I look like myself and not like Ricochet. C'mon, boss bot. Time to blow this Popsicle stand.”   
  
Orion steps out of the brig. “You are an Autobot?”   
  
“Did my badge give me away?” Ricochet's grin broadens and he swipes his palm against his thighs, scraping over the Decepticon sigils present. “Deep cover, boss bot. Not that you'd know that in your current, uh, state of mind. You coming or not?”   
  
“Coming where?”   
  
“Well...” Ricochet draws out the syllable and all but skips down the hall, giving Orion room to follow. “This ship is bout to crash-land so it's in our best interests if we get off. Unless you want to stay in Megatron's berth, in which case I don't know why he was keeping you in the brig.”   
  
“A difference of opinion,” Orion murmurs, and he gamely follows Ricochet. Decepticon or Autobot, Orion knows he is better off not in the brig. If Megatron had wanted him dead, he would have done so already. “We can't leave.”   
  
Ricochet pulls something out of his compartment which he tosses up and down in his hand. “Uh. This here grenade says we can. And since there's an army attacking, there aren't gonna be any Cons to stop us.”   
  
Orion shakes his helm. “No, I mean, we shouldn't. Not without Smokescreen.”   
  
“He wasn't really in the plans being as we hoped he'd be in the brig but sure, why not? No mech left behind, yeah?” Ricochet rolls his shoulders and turns down the hall, beckoning Orion to follow. “Stick close, boss bot. Don't want ya to get lost.”   
  
He hurries to do as Ricochet asks. “Why do you call me that?”   
  
“Boss bot?”   
  
“Yes.”   
  
“Cause that's who you are.” Ricochet pats him on the shoulder and gives him another smile. “Don't worry. You'll remember that soon enough.”   
  


0o0o0

  
  
Nearby, Starscream's HUD lights up with the Nemesis' warnings.   
  
There's an all call to battle. Damage in the engine room. Nemesis is keeping in the air by the paint on his plating. One more explosion and he'll go down for sure.   
  
He can't have asked for a better signal.   
  
He smirks to himself. “It's time,” he tells his team, and then he forwards the message to Airachnid.   
  
Time to pay a little visit back home.   
  


0o0o0

  
  
“Lord Megatron! The Nemesis is picking up something on the long-range scanners!”   
  
Dreadwing looks up from skimming the diagnostics related to their engine troubles. Astrotrain has already been sent to investigate the explosion while Barricade searches for the perpetrator. Alarms screech at them about engine failure, but the main screen fills with something much more worrying. A flock of something large heads their direction.   
  
“What is it?” Lord Megatron demands with a snarl, his energy field a prickle of fury and agitation, large enough to fill the bridge.   
  
“We don't know, sir,” the same Vehicon responds, quivering in his seat. “But it registers as Cybertronian.”   
  
“Starscream,” Dreadwing guesses, his optics narrowing. Though where the treacherous Seeker could have acquired an army, he doesn't know.   
  
After all, Autobots can't fly.   
  
Lord Megatron's fist slams against a console. “Tell Ground Hog to take over for Soundwave. I want him up here where he can be of better use. Dreadwing, you and Lugnut come with me.”  
  
“Of course, great and glorious leader!”   
  
“Yes, Lord Megatron.”   
  
They follow him through the corridors, the Nemesis shuddering and rattling around them. The warship will stay in the air, but it won't be a smooth ride. Though, considering the oncoming threat, the fire in the engine room may be the least of their concerns.   
  
On the main deck, the formless mass approaching them takes shape. Dreadwing stares as the sound of a loud drone reaches his audials and he realizes the vibrations he's feeling through his pedes isn't entirely coming from the ship.   
  
More than anything, however, he recognizes what buzzes their direction, black and purple and branded by the Decepticons.   
  
“Airachnid!” Megatron snarls, his hands curling into fists, his cannon powering up with a loud whine of fury.   
  
And suddenly, Dreadwing's failure comes back to bite them in the aft.   
  


0o0o0

  
  
All hands on deck, as the humans would say, but Sunstreaker doesn't like it. He doesn't like leaving Ratchet and Tracks behind, with Bumblebee to serve as their back up. Bumblebee can't even transform!  
  
But the Decepticons outnumber them and Prowl had given the order and Sunstreaker obeyed.   
  
At least he can take out his frustration on some Decepticon drones.   
  
He still doesn't like it.  
  
“You ready, bro?” Sideswipe asks with a grin and an elbow to Sunstreaker's side. “Sure you can still fight?”  
  
“Shut up.”   
  
Sideswipe has the gall to laugh at him.   
  
“We have the coordinates,” Prowl announces, shoulder launchers twitching as he steps in front of the channel, the ground bridge swirling to life behind him. “Once onboard, we are to find Ricochet and Prime and evacuate. We are not lingering for any reason. Leave Megatron to Starscream.”   
  
“I still can't believe we're doing this,” Wheeljack says, shuffling his pedes. “Working with Starscream? And I thought Prime had lost his senses.”   
  
Needs must, Sunstreaker thinks. And working with the Decepticons has happened before. A little incident with Unicron comes to mind, though granted that had resulted in Optimus losing his memory in the first place.   
  
Wheeljack's commentary is ignored.   
  
“Let's go,” Prowl orders, and what can they all do but obey?   
  
_Good luck_ , Ratchet whispers across their bond. Sunstreaker pulses a reply back and then he plunges into the swirling mass of energy.   
  
Time to kill some 'Cons.  
  


0o0o0

  
  
The Nemesis rattles and shakes as the distinctive roar of Thundercracker's sonic weapon booms above them. Starscream smirks and ignores the running commentary Thundercracker streams to one of his comm lines. So long as Thundercracker is complaining, Starscream is reassured that his former wingmate is online. Not that any Eradicon is a match for Thundercracker and he, supposedly, has nothing to fear from the Insecticons. And Dreadwing is no challenge.   
  
Lugnut's presence, however, is something of an unpleasant surprise. The massive bomber has proven himself, in the past, to be near-suicidal when it comes to protecting Megatron. Which makes him somewhat unpredictable.   
  
Bah. Thundercracker can handle himself. And worst comes to worst, Starscream will send Blast Off to lend a cannon, provided he's completed his task first.   
  
“The Vehicons are cannon fodder,” Starscream says to Onslaught and Blast Off. The three of them are already aboard the Nemesis, having walked in through an access strip. “You should face no challenge from them. Soundwave is somewhere aboard and it stands to reason that if Lugnut is here, Megatron has other reinforcements we don't know about.”   
  
“Are you suggesting that we be careful?” Blast Off asks, his visor dimming. “Why Starscream, that's almost concern coming from you.”   
  
He flicks a wing. “I'm _concerned_ you might fail and frag up our plans.” He huffs a ventilation. “The storage rooms are a deck down. Take as much as you can. Your gestaltmates require it.”   
  
“I do not understand why we don't take this opportunity to offline Megatron for good,” the shuttle grumbles.   
  
Starscream rakes a hand down his faceplate. “We don't have time for this argument again, Blast Off.”  
  
“No, we don't,” Onslaught agrees and Starscream detects a narrow-range comm, something passing between the two.   
  
Blast Off quivers, his plating shuffling about his frame before he goes still. “Fine,” the shuttle grates out and he whirls on a heel strut, graceful considering his size.   
  
Starscream sighs internally. It is times like this that he missed the blind obedience of the Vehicons and Eradicons.   
  
“The vaults are on this level,” Starscream says, and fishes a data chip out of subspace. “Here are directions and access codes.”   
  
“Megatron won't have changed them?”   
  
Starscream smirks. “If he has, it's nothing a blaster won't solve.”   
  
Onslaught takes the chip, turning it about in his fingers. “I gather you have other business to attend?”   
  
“I do. Try not to get yourself killed.”   
  
“Hah.”  
  
They go their separate ways, Onslaught down the hall and Starscream to the nearest lift. There's one more item of importance he needs to retrieve   
  


0o0o0

  
  
Orion is twice Ricochet's size, but that seems to make little difference to the mech, who knifes through the Vehicons as though they are mere toys to be broken. Orion follows in Ricochet's wake, feeling more than a little useless, stumbling when the Nemesis gives another lurch, left and right. The emergency lights make vision difficult.   
  
“Megatron took him to your former office,” Ricochet throws over his shoulder as he tackles another vehicon and executes an impossible martial move that knocks the drone unconscious. “With any luck, all hands on deck means he's being guarded by drones and not Soundwave. Because I may be awesome, but I'm not _that_ awesome.”   
  
“Soundwave should not be underestimated,” Orion agrees.   
  
Blasterfire erupts around them. Orion dives for cover as Ricochet scampers in front of him as though trying to shield him. They take cover behind a curved support beam, laserfire flashing past them.   
  
“Pitscrap!” Ricochet snarls, and his hands become blasters. “Forgot about them.”  
  
“Who?”   
  
“The newbies.” Ricochet's visor gleams a baleful purple and his mouth forms a grim line. “Can you access those blasters of yours?”   
  
“I am armed?”   
  
“I'll take that as a no.” Ricochet sighs a ventilation. “Stay down. Stay here. Try not to miss me.” He flashes a grin and then darts into the hallway, his own weapons raised to fire.   
  
Orion's spark pulses a frantic beat. The sights and sounds of battle are something with which he is unfamiliar and he could have gone his whole functioning never bearing it witness.   
  
He cowers behind this support beam and thinks, 'I am not the Optimus Prime that everyone believes in.' He can't be this great leader, not when he's preserving his own spark, allowing Ricochet or whoever he is, to do all the fighting.   
  
Someone shouts. The scent of discharged plasma is thick in the atmosphere. A bot goes soaring past him, registering an energy field but unconscious. Orion doesn't recognize this particular mech, save for the Decepticon brands on his shoulders.   
  
And then Ricochet goes tumbling past, energon splattered across his frame. Orion's optics widen.   
  
“Ricochet!”   
  
He hears laughter.   
  
He reacts.   
  
Orion throws himself forward, grabbing Ricochet and hauling him out of the line of fire. Something pings across his back, pain like a fiery lash through his systems. He grits his denta and slams into the opposite wall, nearly crushing Ricochet between himself and the unyielding bulkhead.   
  
“Whoa,” Ricochet says, vocalizer filled with static. His hand pats Orion's shoulder. “See? Still some Autobot left in ya.”   
  
“You are injured.” Ricochet is leaking energon from a wound in his side, one made from talons not blasterfire.   
  
“Meh. It's a mesh wound.”   
  
“You need a med-- ah!”   
  
Pain.   
  
Orion's knees falter as something slices into him from behind. He lurches against Ricochet and whirls around, arm whipping out before he thinks twice. He hits something, feels the slam of metal against metal, and when he turns, a Decepticon is there, black and multi-opticked, but smaller. Ricochet's size.   
  
He has a flail, stained with energon. Orion's energon.   
  
And he recovers quickly enough that he attacks again, arm raised to strike. Orion throws himself to the side, taking Ricochet with him, and they tumble across the floor, Ricochet flying from his arms with a grunt.   
  
The mech gives chase and Orion scrambles to avoid the flail.   
  
“Traitor!” the mech hisses at him. Or maybe at Ricochet. He's equally aiming at them both. And Orion is in too much pain. He can't think straight.   
  
He's not a warrior. He's a data clerk.   
  
The flail comes his direction, for his faceplate, and Orion throws up his arms. _Protect the spark_. It's base coding.   
  
The sharp edge digs into his arm, tears away plating, drawing energon and pain. And then there's... something. A twisting churning transformation of plating and he's... armed. Orion stares in shock at the twin blasters where his hands had been.   
  
He hadn't even...  
  
The Decepticon attacks and Orion backpedals even as he throws his hands up, thinking only to defend himself, that he's not cut out for this.   
  
His blasters fire, as much a surprise to him as they are to his attacker. His shots are wild, but one of them pings off the mech's shoulder, sending him spinning backward. More shots come out of nowhere, no, from Ricochet and the mech flies into a bulkhead. It bends beneath his weight and he crumples to the floor, half-covering the other mech that had been with him.   
  
Ricochet limps toward Orion. “See? Knew you were armed.”   
  
“I don't...” Orion trails off. He doesn't even know how to make them collapse. “I'm a data clerk. I shouldn't be armed. I've never been... I.” He works his intake, giving Ricochet a helpless look. “Who am I?”   
  
“I promise. We're going to help you figure that out, Orion.” Ricochet gently places a hand on his blasters, pointing them toward the floor. “But for now, we have to get Smokescreen and get out of here. Yes?”  
  
Orion works his intake. “Yes. Let's go.”   
  


0o0o0

  
  
  
His bag is getting full. There's so much to pack.   
  
His buffer? Yes. Definitely that.   
  
Because Knock Out is all about survival and right now, he's not certain the Decepticons are a sure bet. Not that he's thinking Autobot or Starscream, oh no. He's thinking, take the spare shuttle and head for the stars. Where?   
  
Anywhere but fragging here! Here where his genitors are and Breakdown died and there's no fragging future.   
  
Mil-rats, as many as he can stuff into this sack. Spare parts. Waxing rags. He's got a few spare compartments in his thighs.   
  
He survived on his own as a youngling. He can do it now. There's a way. There's always another way.   
  
“Going somewhere?”   
  
Tools scatter everywhere as Knock Out whirls around at the unexpected voice. “Of course I am!” Knock Out snarls, whipping his arm through the air. “Since you and your friends decided to crash the ship I'm fragging standing on!”   
  
Starscream is in the doorway, leaning against the frame. He pops an orbital ridge. “You sound distressed, _doctor_. Is there anything I can do to help?”   
  
Knock Out sneers and turns his back on the Seeker. If Starscream wanted to kill him he'd do it already. He's not playing this game.   
  
Something else to pack? No. He's good. Time to get the slag out of here before he joins the scrap heap with everyone else.   
  
“My offer stands, you know,” Starscream says as Knock Out stuffs the last bundle of rations into his last compartment. “I could use someone of your talents.”   
  
Knock Out hesitates and braces himself against a med berth. The Nemesis is shuddering, the warnings loud and obnoxious. In the distance, he can hear shouting and blaster fire. It's a war out there, he knows. A war he doesn't care to join.   
  
“You followed me once before.”   
  
“Back then I didn't have much of a choice.”   
  
“And how long do you think you can survive on Earth alone?”  
  
Knock Out grinds his denta, his engine revving a mournful note. If Breakdown were here, this would be a lot easier.   
  
Starscream comes closer, his field tickling against the edges of Knock Out's. “I can't promise you revenge, or that you'll live, but I will say, your best chance is with me. Unless, of course, you think you'd be better off with your genitors.”   
  
Knock Out stares at Starscream, unable to formulate a response.   
  
“I have my methods,” Starscream says with a shrug. “Well?”   
  
His spark strobes a rhythm of panic.   
  
In the end, what choice does he really have?  
  


0o0o0

  
  
“Where are they?” Megatron's roar of rage precedes his arrival on the bridge, his frame scuffed and scratched and splattered with blue energon.   
  
None of it is his own.   
  
Dreadwing trails along in his wake and makes for the nearest console, shoving a Vehicon out of the way. But the computer only confirms what he already knows: their prisoners are gone. The brig is empty as is the workstation. And their system has been breached.   
  
Only Soundwave will be able to tell if they've been compromised.   
  
The communications specialist is cabled into a nearby console, his spindly fingers flying over the keys faster than Dreadwing can count. He does not flinch in the wake of Megatron's fury, not does he speak aloud, but the screen is testament to his work.   
  
It's.... a map?  
  
Dreadwing abandons his console and crosses the bridge, appearing to the left of Soundwave as Megatron looms over Soundwave's right shoulder. It is indeed a map of their current location hovering the same continent that has yielded such promising stores of energon.   
  
Soundwave is running a search algorithm. But for what? If he seeks more relics, he should be decoding the Archives. And this is hardly the time to be concerned with weapons.   
  
“What is this?” he asks.   
  
“This, Dreadwing, is our revenge,” Megatron replies, his tone tight but his field easing into a deadly came. “Soundwave has been working on a project. And while the Autobots think they've escaped cleanly with my property, they are not so clever. Their little assault on my ship has just provided me the last clue I needed.”   
  
The console beeps. Coordinates on the screen flash. Soundwave doesn't speak but the rapid typing ceases. He tilts his faceplate toward Megatron.   
  
And the Decepticon warlord's face curls into a denta-bearing smirk.   
  
“Found them.”   
  


0o0o0

  
  
Ratchet stands in front of the swirling vortex that is the ground bridge and waits, his hands on Tracks' shoulders. Anxiety leaks into his field despite his attempt to rein it in. He can hear, over the open comm, the sounds of battle.   
  
But they've retrieved Optimus and that's what matters most. Prowl's sounded the retreat. No one's seen or heard from Starscream. The Nemesis is still in the air, somehow, and the Insecticon horde that Airachnid has brought with her has now turned on its allies.   
  
Word is that Airachnid is offline. Ratchet won't believe it until he's seen her gray frame.   
  
No one's seen Knock Out. Hopefully, that's a good thing. Especially since taking him captive is not an option. Not one that will restore their family at any rate.   
  
They trickle through, one by one, Perceptor and Mirage, supporting each other. The former suffers from a few superficial marks that will repair on their own. Mirage is spotless as ever. It helps to be invisible.   
  
First Aid and Jazz, still wearing his Ricochet disguise, half-carrying a white and blue Autobot between them, one Ratchet does not recognize. The Decepticons had other prisoners? What arrival had they missed?   
  
First Aid shoots him a status report, his scans of the new Autobot – Smokescreen – and Jazz. Both will survive, both will need repair. Neither are in critical condition.   
  
Good to know.   
  
Bluestreak and Sideswipe run in behind them as though in the middle of combat, weapons still drawn, Bluestreak's door panels tight against his backplate.   
  
“So,” Sideswipe pants. “We're still outnumbered.”   
  
“But I think we won,” Bluestreak offers, before he is distracted by the sight of his partner, and hurries to follow First Aid and his charges to their medbay.  
  
Prowl and Sunstreaker are last, Optimus preceding them, looking around in wide-opticked wonder. Ratchet sends the cue to Bumblebee, who shuts down the ground bridge, and just like that, it's over.   
  
An hour, Ratchet reflects with a glance to his chronometer. Less than an hour has passed since Starscream first contacted them, ready to strike.   
  
“No fatalities. No critical injuries,” Ratchet comments as Prowl moves closer, limping but otherwise undamaged.   
  
“I see.” Ratchet's palm splays across Tracks' chestplate, keeping his jittery youngling from leaping forward. Not that it matters because the moment Sunstreaker comes into reach, he sweeps Tracks into his arms.   
  
Never mind that Tracks is only two-thirds his height and weight. He's not a sparkling by any definition.   
  
“Papa! You're back!”   
  
“Didn't I say I would be?”   
  
Ratchet looks at Optimus, who may not remember them as Autobots, but should certainly remember. There is a reason they are old friends.   
  
“Orion,” Ratchet greets with a smile. “Welcome back, old friend.”   
  
They clasp hands, Orion's field reading confused and exhausted and alarmed. “I am beginning to believe I am finally where I belong,” Orion says, his vocals all Optimus, but his mannerisms subtly different.   
  
“We have something we think we help you remember,” Ratchet says and before he can stop himself, performs a scan.   
  
Minor damage, but nothing too worrisome. Except for that gouge in his side. He's hiding it behind his arm, but there's energon leaking from it.   
  
“Who hurt you?”   
  
“A Decepticon. He was unfamiliar to me.” Orion's expression falls, his field tinted with disappointment. “Megatron is not the mech we knew, Ratchet.”   
  
“I'm sorry you had to learn that lesson again.” Ratchet cycles a ventilation and exchanges a glance with Prowl, perhaps the most uninjured among them. “What now, fearless leader?”   
  
“Recovery,” Prowl answers.   
  
“And Starscream?”   
  
The tactician shakes his helm. “He saw fit to raid Megatron's vaults, but that is all I know.” He steps closer, lowering his vocals. “Jazz says Knock Out should have been in the medbay, removed from the fighting.”   
  
“He's not offline,” Ratchet insists, one hand flattening against his chestplate. “I would know.” Their connection, however tenuous it might be, still pulses weakly.   
  
“What about Knock Out?” Orion asks, though his wince betrays the pain he must be in.   
  
“I'll explain later.” Ratchet glances at his family, but Sunstreaker has Tracks and all is well. “Come on, Orion. Let's get you patched up.”   
  
“And my memory?”   
  
“That, too.” Ratchet glances around the command center, but most of the Autobots have already dispersed. He suspects the celebration won't occur until after Orion regains his memories.   
  
Sadly, for most of the Autobots now, Orion is a stranger. Though he might remember Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, if briefly. Ratchet's not sure how far back his memory loss goes. He may recall Prowl as well.   
  
_Proximity Alert. Proximity Alert._   
  
Ratchet pauses, his attention grabbed the main console as it starts flashing. “Why is Agent Fowler coming here?”   
  
Bumblebee gesticulates wildly. ' _It's not Agent Fowler. Prowl, we've got a problem. A big one_.'   
  
“What is it?” Prowl demands, all but sprinting to the command console and skipping to a stop beside Bumblebee. His fingers fly over the keys.   
  
“Is something wrong?” Orion asks.   
  
Concern pours across the bond. Sunstreaker exchanges a glance with Ratchet and lowers their youngling back to the ground, though he keeps a grip on Tracks' hand.   
  
“What's going on?”   
  
“Something's approaching,” Prowl says. “Something big.”   
  
“Big as in...?”   
  
The monitors flash as it switches to their external camera feed.   
  
“The Nemesis,” Ratchet finishes, his spark sinking into his tanks. “But how?” Worse are the flittering shapes around the massive warship, Insecticons and Eradicons alike. Never has it been more obvious that they are vastly outnumbered.   
  
Prowl shakes his helm. “The better question is why? As in, what are his intentions? I expect they are not to give a greeting.”   
  
“It should be obvious, Prowl!” Sunstreaker all but hisses. “We need to get out of here. Now!”  
  
“Never thought I'd see the day when you prefer to run, Sunstreaker,” Wheeljack drawls, and his battlemask snaps shut. “But I think you got the right idea.”   
  
Above them, something explodes. The entire base shakes and rock dust rains from the ceiling, showering them with debris.  
  
“Get out of here? And go where?” Ratchet demands, throwing his hands into the air. “In case you haven't noticed, this isn't our planet!”   
  
“What the frag is going on?” Sideswipe bursts into the control room, Mirage and Perceptor right behind him.   
  
“I think we have our answer,” Mirage says with a look at the screen. “How did he find us?”   
  
“Starscream betrayed us,” Sunstreaker snarls.   
  
“We don't know that,” Prowl says and his plating slicks down. “But the truth remains. We are not capable of repelling a full-fledged attack. There is the youngling to think of.”   
  
“And if we run, what then? We spend the rest of our functioning hiding on this planet?” Ratchet demands even as the entire base shudders again, more rocks raining down.   
  
“Frag this,” Wheeljack snarls and rattles up the catwalk, heading for the lift to Agent Fowler's helipad.   
  
“Where are you going?” Prowl demands.   
  
“You can all argue about what you're going to do. But I see Cons attacking and I'm not going to stand here and get buried in the wreckage.” Wheeljack slams a hand into the panel and triggers the doors to close. “I'm doing what needs to be done.”   
  
“We run, Ratchet, so that we can live to fight another day,” Prowl says, but his tone holds less confidence than Ratchet could have hoped.   
  
“The Nemesis is equipped with a fusion cannon.”   
  
Ratchet turns to see Jazz in the doorway, still wearing Ricochet and leaning heavily on First Aid. His expression is grin.   
  
“It'll only take one shot,” Jazz informs them. “I knew Soundwave was working on some kind of project, but I couldn't get access to it. Apparently, he's been looking for us, for this base.”   
  
Prowl's fingers stop moving and they rest on the console. “He'll destroy us all in one blow. He'll win the war.”   
  
“Not if we leave first. We still have the shuttle we arrived on,” Perceptor points out, his fingers twisting together in distress. “Though it will not fit us all.”   
  
“We can take the ground bridge out of here,” Sunstreaker says and he moves to Ratchet's side, placing his free hand on Ratchet's shoulder. “Hide on Earth.”   
  
Prowl cycles a ventilation. “I cannot believe it has come down to this.”   
  
Orion steps forward, though his field radiates hesitation. “Perhaps if I spoke to him...?”  
  
“I think we are beyond that.” Prowl's fist slams the console, activating the open comm. “All Autobots report to the main control room now. We're evacuating. I repeat, we are evacuating.”   
  
The proximity alarms shriek all the louder, flashing lights joining in the noise.   
  
“Ratchet, Tracks and Sunstreaker go first,” Prowl continues, his fingers flying over the keys. “Now.”   
  
“But--”  
  
Sunstreaker tugs on his shoulder, pulling him toward the access tunnel. “No arguing, Ratchet. We have to think of Tracks first.”   
  
Like they hadn't done for Knock Out.   
  
“Good luck, old friend,” Orion says with a brief clasp to Ratchet's shoulder. “With Primus' will, we shall meet again.”  
  
The ground bridge swirls to life. And for the first time since he'd watched Uraya burn, Ratchet feels like he's leaving his home behind.   
  
But at least this time, he has his family with him. Except for the family he has to leave behind.   
  


****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: Annnnd, that's the end of season two and of season two of the story! To be continued in season three and "Zero Sum" which I need to get to writing post-haste.
> 
> As always, feedback is very welcome and appreciated. I know this chapter doesn't quite meet the standards of the others and I do apologize for that. Still, I hope it answered some questions, at least as many new ones it brought on anyway. :)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
